


Tangled web

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gaston is grim, Mutual Pining, Protective Ruby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 04:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: Belle French has become firm friends with Mr Gold which would suit him just fine if only he wasn't inconveniently in love with her. And if he hadn't somehow managed to agree to pretend to be her boyfriend to help her fend off the unwanted attentions of Storybrooke's wannabe lothario.





	1. Chapter 1

If there’s one fact that every single inhabitant of Storybrooke agrees on, it’s that the town librarian is an actual ray of sunshine. Coming in as a close second is the way that everyone, from the town crier to the mayor, is baffled as to how Mr Gold (first name unknown) and Belle French ever became friends because as Gold had once overheard Emma Swan saying to her son over hot chocolate in Granny’s, opposites might attract but then there’s the pawnbroker and the librarian. Light and dark. Night and day. 

The way Henry had shrugged in a ‘who cares’ way had reminded Gold he owed him a pay rise and Miss Swan a rent increase.

Mind you, Gold would be the first to admit that he’s almost as mystified as his neighbours as to why Belle would wish to spend any of her spare time with him but then he’s never been someone to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

When Belle first moved to the town and opened up the library for the first time in living memory, turning it from a dark, damp, gloomy space to somewhere that drew in children and their parents alike for reading groups and themed events which seemed to mostly involve puppets and party hats, he’d been deeply sceptical that she’d last more than six months in this backwater. Surely for such a bright, energetic young woman, she’d be more interested in the next step on her career ladder than in trying to persuade hordes of children that reading was preferable to playing games on their phones.

But he - and most others - were proved wrong when the library went from strength to strength and Belle flourished like the sunflowers she was so fond of growing in front of the tiny cottage she’d rented out. Henry and his friends took to hanging out with her over ice cream in Granny’s and before you knew it, she was at the centre of everything - friends with Miss Swan, hanging out with the Lucas Girl, walking the Charmings’ new puppy at the weekend. Granny was always trying to fatten her up with extra large portions of lasagne and Leroy had taken to seeking relationship advice from her over beers in the evening.

Gold had prided himself, as he skulked in his lair polishing silver and mending pieces of jewellery, on being made of sterner stuff, able to resist her warm smiles, bright gaze and lilting accent while weaker souls melted like chocolate left out in the sun when in her presence. 

So when the visits to his shop had begun, starting innocently enough with browsing his small but high quality collection of first editions but then progressing rapidly to what felt like full-on interrogations about this or that artefact (“what century is this from? What does this do? What happens if I shake this?”) he’d done his very best to rebuff her. He was, after all, a very busy man, focused on running an antiques shop and managing an extensive property portfolio, and therefore with little time to spare for Belle French, with her insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge. 

Eventually even her enthusiasm had seemed to wane in the face of so many thwarted attempts at striking up conversation with him and Gold had been able to return to his usual pattern of minimal contact with the good citizens of Storybrooke, which suited him just fine. One or two daily interactions with actual customers were quite sufficient, thank you very much.

Which meant that when Belle had waltzed into his dark shadowy shop, shutters keeping out the intense mid-summer sun, carrying two iced teas, he’d been a little lost for words. So lost in fact, that by the time he’d regained the use of his senses, she’d already placed the cups down, dropped her purse on a handily placed Victorian chair and was in the process of heaving herself up onto the counter, where her bare legs dangled in front of him. 

“Do make yourself at home Miss French,” he’d said drily.

The beaming smile that momentarily dazzled him showed that she was perhaps immune to his particular brand of sarcasm. He’d have to try harder in that case. 

Eyeing her bum (and then hastily averting his eyes in case she thought he was some sort of middle-aged lecher) Gold snaps “I have a perfectly suitable chair for you if you insist on staying. Unless you wish to continue polishing my counter that is. Or perhaps you have customers to serve at the library. I’m sure Ms Mills would take a dim view of you shirking your duties.”

“Oh phooey,” Belle said, and with that, Regina was summarily dismissed as if she was an annoying gnat. Which - well…

And so it had gone on and Gold, putting his clever brain to good use, had realised he was on a hiding to nowhere and perhaps it was better to just throw his hands up in the air and silently admit defeat. 

Which led to a parade of admittedly delicious baked goods being brought in at all sorts of times of the day, making it impossible for him to ever be one step ahead of her. Breakfast, mid-morning, lunches, early afternoons, later afternoons; all seemed fair game to Belle. 

It had played havoc with his work schedules and concentration as he had to spend far too much of his day peering from between the shutters trying to espy his erstwhile torturer so he could take preventative action, switching the door panel to ‘Closed’ - instead of actually being able to do his inventory or renovations.

When, over chocolate and blueberry muffins one morning, he’d finally cracked and pointed out to her with some acerbity that he was falling behind with his paperwork because of all these unsolicited visits, the momentary gleam in her eye was all the warning he got that he’d somehow committed a fatal error. Sure enough, by the time she’d waved him a happy goodbye, he’d apparently acquired a part time bookkeeper (“Really it’s no trouble, I finish at one o’clock Tuesdays and Saturdays”). 

He couldn’t quite help the wry smile once he was on his own again. Well played, Miss French, well played.

00000

Fast forward six months and Gold may have had to let out the trousers on all of his best suits but his inventory has never been in better shape, especially now he’s been persuaded to invest in a computer. Belle has stuck to him how a burr sticks to a cashmere pullover and if truth be told, he wouldn’t have it any other way. His life is better for having her in it but he’d rather have all his teeth removed without anaesthetic than admit that to another living soul, especially Regina who’s taken to “just popping in” to the shop so she can make pointed remarks about deals with the devil. It makes Gold think wistfully of turning her into a toad but Belle just seems to find the mayor amusing and takes the opportunity to play on Regina’s love of Henry to sell her all sorts of toys that he’s never been able to shift so it’s perhaps not all bad.

Gold glances at his watch. It’s barely past eight o’clock so he’s time for a refill before opening up the shop. He calls Ruby Lucas over to his favoured table and watches the girl slink across the room, coffee pot in hand. He still can’t quite understand how she and Belle are so tight with each other; they’re polar opposites yet they seem to spend an inordinate amount of time gossiping over cocktails, their conversation always grinding to a halt on the rare occasion he’s collecting rent from the Rabbit Hole at the same time they’re in there, a look of guilt on Belle’s face, and something approaching amusement on Miss Lucas’. They no doubt don’t want him cramping their style and well, fair enough. He’s old, thin with greying hair and a limp; they’re (Belle) young, foot loose and fancy free. If he was in their shoes, he wouldn’t be seen dead with him. 

Gold is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t look up when the door opens. It’s only when Belle slides into the seat opposite that he takes notice. The cheerful mint green mackintosh she’s sporting on this overcast and humid day fails to match the expression on her face, which is – most unusually – sporting a frown. 

Belle casts a look over her shoulder and slips even further down into her seat until practically all he can see is a halo of auburn hair and a pair of sky blue eyes.

“Is he behind me?’ she hisses.

Gold is a little confused; this isn’t exactly how he’d imagined his morning unfolding. “Is who behind you?” he enquires, a note of bemusement in his voice.

“Gaston,” she replies, accompanied by an eye roll.

Ah. Gaston Legume. Tall, handsome (if chiselled jaws and toned stomachs are your thing) and quite possibly the biggest buffoon it’s ever been Gold’s displeasure to do business with. 

“And what seems to be the problem?” he asks.

“The problem, Gold, is that he just will not take ‘No’ for an answer.” Belle is never terse, at least not with him, but she’s getting pretty close now.

A coil of anger unfurls in his stomach. Gold can take or leave pretty much everyone in this town but he will not – cannot – tolerate any harm coming to Belle. He leans forward and whispers “do you want me to break his legs for you?” which at least elicits a tiny gurgle of laughter from her.

She leans forward and whispers back “you are awful, you know.”

His eyes twinkle. “Oh believe me I do know, Belle. And you didn’t answer me.”

Belle eyes him thoughtfully. “Tempting though the offer is I don’t want to see David have to arrest you for grievous bodily harm. Besides who’d look after the shop while you’re languishing in jail?”

Gold nods. “A fair point, well made. But clearly something needs to be done because I’ve seen how that boy operates and there’s nothing he likes more than the thrill of the chase. He’s not going to back off that easily and you know it.”

Belle knows Gold’s right because everyone knew it took a threat by Granny to knee cap Gaston before he stopped following Ruby around like a slobbering overgrown puppy.

Gold watches her over the brim of his coffee cup as she clearly comes up with and discards suggestions for how to tackle her unwanted paramour. Eventually he interrupts her internal dialogue. “While you’re plotting his demise, can I get you something to eat or drink.” 

Belle flicks him a smile as she calls Ruby over again to order a pot of earl grey. “And some toast and jam. Oh and maybe a plate of blueberry pancakes.” 

At Gold’s snort of amusement, she turns to look at him, her nose wrinkling and he catches himself thinking it’s a good idea she has no idea what effect that has on him. He elects to distract himself with some gentle mocking so he picks up the menu. “Good to see that not even the fear of being stalked suppresses your appetite. I think there are perhaps one or two items you haven’t ordered – French toast, granola…”

“Oh shush,” Belle says fondly. Behind her there’s another snort of amusement but by the time she turns her head, Ruby is almost back at the counter. “You know I always work better on a full stomach.”

He’s about to reply when the door opens again and Gold’s heart plummets to the bottom of his $400 shoes. It’s Gaston and he’s scanning Granny’s, no doubt having tracked his quarry down.

“Don’t turn around but he’s here,” Gold says quietly and there’s no need to explain who ‘he’ is. Without thinking he reaches out to put his hand on top of hers. He can see the action startles her and he starts to withdraw, fearing he’s overstepped the invisible boundary that keeps an appropriate distance between them but she places her other hand on his, while biting down on her bottom lip, turning it a vivid shade of red. Gold looks away; it's not good for his heart. 

Gaston hasn’t clocked her yet but it’s only a matter of time. Gold and Belle freeze in place, as still as statues, and he becomes painfully aware of the pulse beating in her wrist. It’s racing and he wants more than anything to be able to calm her down, make her feel safe but he knows there’s nothing he can do for her.

Sure enough, one quick scan of the diner and Gaston sees her. He wastes no time in strutting cockily over to where they’re sitting. Gold risks one quick warning squeeze of Belle’s hand and then he looks up at his adversary.

“Mr Legume.” His voice is crisp and curt; a stupid person would think mistake this for politeness instead of sensing the anger boiling just below the surface. “Is there any reason you feel the need to interrupt what is clearly a private conversation?” 

Gaston is clearly very stupid indeed because he elects to ignore Gold and instead looms over Belle, who if she sinks any further will end up on the floor, leering at her in what he probably thinks is an attractive way. The knuckles on the hand not holding Belle’s are turning white.

“Actually yeah, I was after a word with Belle here about our date tonight.”

A sharp intake of breath and a blink-and-you’d-miss-it glance his way are the only warning he gets before Belle says with considerable asperity, “Gaston. Just what do I have to do to get you to understand that I would not date you for love or money. I have told you repeatedly that I am already in a relationship. Now please leave us alone so we can enjoy our breakfast in peace and quiet.”

Gold blinks rapidly, unsure who is more surprised at the statement; the lummox standing in front of them, or him. His usually agile mind has ground to a standstill as a thousand questions race around his head. ‘Who is Belle dating? Why hadn’t he known she was in a relationship? Why hadn’t she told him she was seeing someone? Does she not trust orlike him enough to confide in him’? And then, ‘Us?’

Shamefully, while he’s sitting there trying to process events as they threaten to spiral out of control, Gaston is the quicker of the two of them to get out of the starting blocks.

““Don’t be ridiculous Belle. What on earth would you see in Gold? I mean look at him. He’s old enough to be your father. You’re seeing me,” he exclaims, face reddening. 

While Gold bristles at the insult and wonders what it would feel like to beat Gaston with his cane (pretty damn good, he suspects), Belle – remaining remarkably cool – puts Gaston firmly in his place. “You’re the one being ridiculous. I have never – not once – given any indication that I am in the slightest bit interested in you romantically.” She ignores the spluttering. “In fact,” Belle continues mercilessly, “I’m not in the slightest bit interested in you at all. Not when I have someone like Alexander in my life.”

Gold whips his head up to see Belle sending a pleading look his way so he files away for later the question of how she knows his name. He suspects that before the day’s over there may be a number of equally pressing questions requiring answers.

From somewhere behind them there’s a crash of crockery hitting the tiled floor, rapidly followed by a ‘fucking hell’ from Ruby. A quick look around tells him they’ve quite the audience who are now hanging on Belle’s every word. He can’t tell if Granny wants to kill him or Gaston but there’s a scarily fierce look on her face that makes him not want to find out.

Christ alive. 

He’d thought the most exciting part of his day would be deciding whether to wear the enamel or the silver cufflinks but it turns out he’s got that badly wrong seeing as how just one hour later and he seems to have acquired a pretend girlfriend.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s close to midnight and Belle can’t relax enough to fall asleep so after a last pummelling of the pillow and rustle of her sheets, she finally admits defeat. Slipping on a dressing gown, she goes downstairs to her green and white tiled kitchen to make some hot chocolate and reflect further on what has turned out to be a spectacularly bad day.

In between hunting for the cocoa powder and heating the milk on the stove, Belle still can’t quite believe the mess she’s managed to land herself in and for about the fiftieth time that evening rues ever having thought that she should be polite to that overgrown lummox, sometimes going by the name of Gaston, instead of doing what any sane adult would have done, namely giving him very short shrift.

And because of that innate politeness she’s never been able to shake off she’s put in jeopardy the friendship she values above all others (sorry Rubes). 

The friendship with Alexander Gold. Sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones and an even sharper mind, he’s not been the easiest man in the world to get to know but Belle had determined, the very first time she’d set eyes on him as he crossed the street one sunny morning the first week she’d landed in Storybrooke, that this was someone who merited closer examination. 

And this decision had had nothing – nothing whatsoever - to do with the fact that Belle’s always had a penchant for men who can wear a suit. And men with salt and pepper hair. No, he just looked – like a challenge. Intelligent. Different. Maybe a little dark and dangerous, if the words of warning spilling from just about everybody’s lips were anything to go by.

Intelligent because his crushing put downs overheard in Granny’s were so dry and elegantly crafted it wasn’t always obvious just how insulting he was actually being. Different because of his soft Scottish accent, the fact he walked with a cane that no doubt cost thousands of dollars, the way his hair was worn just a little too long. Dark and dangerous because everyone from Leroy to Emma had warned Belle before she’d even unpacked the first box of books to never do a deal with him, never owe him money, never look him in the eyes (Leroy admittedly had been rather drunk when he’s shared that particular gem with her). 

The only person who seemed happy to chat to Mr Gold was Henry Mills and given that Henry was happy to talk to just about anyone about anything, that maybe meant that Henry simply didn’t have very discerning taste. 

Belle however, was someone who liked to form her own opinions about people so she had immediately set about trying to understand what exactly made the oh so terrifying Mr Gold tick, which in this case clearly required a lot of one on one interactions.

First there were occasional forays into his shop to browse his small but perfectly curated selection of first editions. Chattily asking him questions about the authors or where he’d got them from however resulted in little more than curt responses under his breath and ill-concealed rolling of those bee-brown eyes.

“Do you actually intend to make a purchase today, Miss French or are you planning on spending an entire morning here perusing…” and he’d cleared his throat before continuing dryly “…Harpoons and other Whalecraft?”  
Undeterred (indeed spurred on) by this rudeness and his shockingly poor sales techniques (how he'd made a fortune was one of the many baffling things about him), Belle happily pursued her quarry, springing on him an assortment of baked goods as she quizzed him about the artefacts in the shop (“Is this valuable?” “Yes.“ “What happens if I press this button?” “I’m sure you’ll discover you can survive with only three fingers on that hand Miss French.” “Oh I’m sorry was that meant to come off?” “Nothing that a dab of glue won’t fix Miss French.”) and enjoying the arch of his eyebrow and array of facial expressions flitting across Gold’s normally impassive face, ranging from puzzlement to faint alarm, depending on what Belle was holding in her hands at the time.

Who knew that taunting the most scary man in town could be so much fun?

The day Belle emerged the victor in their escalating skirmishes was a perfect summer’s morning and she’d chosen to wear one of her favourite summer dresses, a floaty number in buttery yellow, with spaghetti straps, that just came to above her knees. Accessorised with skyscraper heels and some homemade muffins, she was upping the ante. And as soon as she’d parked her bum and the pastries on the shop counter, and seen that by now familiar look of dazed panic fill Gold’s eyes, Belle somehow sensed she'd finally caught her prey. 

Sure enough, half an hour and some careful negotiation later ("You drive a hard bargain Miss French but it seems this is the only way I'll ever get any peace") and she’d made her way back to the library having secured herself a part time job helping him out in the shop. Belle hadn’t been able to stop beaming the rest of the day.

Sighing and forcing herself to stop thinking back to those halcyon days of them reaching a tentative truce and then forging a friendship over a shared love of caffeine and antiquities, Belle forlornly stirs her drink, breaking up the milky skin that was forming. She cannot see how their precious, delicate entente cordiale is going to recover from this; Gold will never forgive her for embroiling him in this spur-of-the-moment escape plan to free herself of Gaston’s unwanted attentions. He’s a proud man who hates being made to look like a fool or being forced into doing something he doesn’t want to do. And pretending to be Belle’s boyfriend must be up there as something Gold would only be willing to do if under threat of death.

And to compound the problem, everything had happened so fast in Granny’s after Belle’s surprise announcement that she’d barely had time to sit down with Gold afterwards to apologise. She’d tried to explain that she’d never have come up with such a ludicrous plan if she’d had more time to think things through, at which point a strange expression had fleetingly appeared on his face; a look of distaste no doubt for the situation he’d been landed in. 

Belle had hoped that Gold couldn’t tell that his reaction had hurt a little. She might not be the best catch in the world for a man like him (not rich enough for a start, not smart enough either, perhaps) but she’d thought that they were at least close enough for him not to be repulsed at the idea of spending time with her. 

But before Belle could say any more to him Ruby had rushed over, a whirl of legs and red apron, to whisk her away for a whispered conflab in the washroom. Belle had shot Gold an apologetic look but when she returned it was to an empty booth, Gold nowhere to be seen, and a twenty dollar note on the table. 

Ruby had pointed out that it was probably a lot for a man who valued his privacy to take in. It’s not often, she’d said with a commendably straight face and a voice that barely wobbled, that your fake relationship gets outed in front of some of the worst of the town’s gossipmongers so maybe he just needed some space to process recent events. 

Fair enough, Belle had conceded. Leroy for one had looked as if all his Christmases had come at once so perhaps she should leave him alone to lick his wounds and allow some of the immediate interest to dissipate. 

That promise had lasted all of twenty minutes before Belle was pinging the first of what was to be a multitude of texts to Gold. The resulting exchange of messages hadn’t exactly left her feeling reassured. While Gold’s not exactly blessed with the greatest technological knowhow, he can open and send texts and upload photographs, even if he remains determined to use full punctuation at all times, which has been known to drive Belle to distraction when she’s waiting for him to press ‘send’ so they can get back to chatting over tea and biscuits.

Belle grimaces as she re-reads them, her stomach in knots, while sipping her tepid cocoa and then reaches for a notepad and pen. With sleep an unlikely prospect she might as well start coming up with some ideas for what she and Gold can do to convince Gaston they’re in love. 

A dinner date sounds a safe way to start off the process. After all, what could go wrong?


	3. Chapter 3

“Well this is nice,” Belle chirps, as she tears a bread roll in two, spreading a generous dollop of butter on one half before taking a small bite of it. The murmur of pleasure Belle makes has Gold wanting to loosen his tie a little, to get more air into his lungs.

Taking a careful look around the restaurant he thinks to himself that nice doesn’t seem quite the right adjective. There’re a lot of crisp white linen tablecloths, on top of which rest fine bone china and solid silver cutlery. There’s a hum of gentle background noise as satisfied diners happily tuck into truffled chicken quenelles, onglet with roasted garlic sauce and whole crab.

Ordinarily Gold would be in his element, pairing his tasting menu with flights of wine and savouring every taste and texture. Today however, it’s impossible for him to be able to relax and every mouthful is a struggle, because not for the first time since he got up this morning he’s wishing he was anywhere else; wishing he’d had the sense to not go along with Belle’s plan at the outset; or conversely wishing that at least some of their charade has an element of truth to it.

Gold had drunk several glasses of whiskey after he’d made it home from Granny’s and had woken the next day with a raging hangover and half convinced he’d actually dreamed that in front of half the town’s population Belle French – popular Belle French, cultured and clever Belle French, half his age Belle French – announced that she was in fact dating a man that everybody feared, a man who walked with the aid of a cane, and who looked old enough to be her father.

That illusion had been promptly shattered when Belle swished into the shop, looking bright eyed and bushy tailed to drop a pile of notes onto the counter. It turned out that she’d been busy plotting ways to convince even Legume - that brain cell deprived would-be beau - that she was taken. Plans A, B and C all involved eating. Plans D to F covered drinking. And from what he could tell, for the remaining letters of the alphabet he would be required to squire Belle to the sort of public events that nothing on this earth could induce him to attend. More pertinently, he would weigh at least another fifty pounds if they got beyond B and he'd have to get all his made-to-measure Armani altered.

As Gold had flicked through the notes that showcased Belle’s extensive research skills, conscious of a rising sense of panic at just what exactly he’d got himself into, his eyes landed on a page headed up with “Personal information". It was currently blank but there were a number of subheadings that made his heart sink in dismay: ‘Hobbies,’ Career history,’ ‘Likes and dislikes,’ and – worse of all - ‘Dating history.’

Something on his face must have hinted at the turmoil raging within because Belle had leaned over to place her hand on top of his.

“It won’t be for long, I promise. And I am so grateful you agreed to help me.” Her voice was gentle as she continued. “I just thought that to pull this off we should get our stories straight, not just on how we got together but in case people ask us separately on – well, you know, more personal stuff."

And hearing Belle say this in her soft way, eyes shining so brightly, had Gold nodding in agreement as if what they were planning to do was the only sensible option instead of doing what any sane man person would do, which was to put an immediate stop to their joint exercise in folly.

Fast forward three days and here they are, seated at the best table in the house, which had required Gold to call in one of his favours to secure because people book three months in advance for the privilege of dining at Auberge du Lac, and discussing the merits of soft shell crab versus langoustines as if this was how they spent every weekend. 

Picking Belle up from outside her cottage earlier in the morning he’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe when she’d come tripping down the path towards the Cadillac, a vision in mint green silk that floated around her knees. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Emma and Henry were taking a little longer than entirely necessary to cross the road, so he decided to give them a show. Placing Belle's hand in the crook of his elbow he escorted her to the passenger's door before opening it with a small bow and an "if you will." A quick peek told him his actions had not gone unnoticed. 

Henry was a cheeky imp. That thumbs up was quite unnecessary.

00000

“While we’re waiting for the next course, is now a good time to get our stories straight?"

Gold thinks there’s never going to be a good time to do this but knows it has to be done. He takes a careful sip of a perfectly cold glass of sauvignon blanc before smiling politely. It’s a warm day, and despite the breeze coming through the veranda doors, Gold wishes they’d chosen somewhere with a more relaxed dress code so he could at least lose the jacket. Belle as ever looks as cool as a cucumber although there’s a very faint blush across her cheeks that might be down to her second glass of champagne.

He can’t put it off for ever.

“No time like the present.” Gold hopes he sounds suitably confident and assured. “So what do you have in mind?”

Belle eyes him over the rim of her glass. “I think we need to keep it as simple as possible and as close to the truth as possible – the more complicated we make it the more likely one of us is going to slip up. Everyone knows I’ve been spending time with you at the shop and...” 

She trails off so Gold helps her out. “And we’ve slowly bonded over our mutual love of books and interest in visiting antique stores until we realised that perhaps what we had was more than a - friendship.” 

He looks at Belle to see if his suggestion is not too inappropriate. She’s nodding enthusiastically so it doesn’t seem as if he’s overstepped the mark. Encouraged, he continues. “But we wanted to take things slowly and given how private I am, we agreed to not go public until we were both certain we wanted the same thing.”

Gold expects Belle to pick this up and develop it further but instead she asks, doing a fair imitation of Henry when he’s being inquisitive. “What’s Belle’s favourite book?”

The smile of delight on her face when Gold without a moment’s hesitation replies, “Jane Eyre” makes his chest tighten and he has to look away for a moment to buy himself time to get his breathing back under control.

“And why’s that?” Belle asks, using her own voice again, and Gold can’t help but grin at her. “A smart independent woman, bowing to no man, clever, artistic, plain speaking. Hmm. I can’t think who that reminds me of.”

Belle’s eyes sparkle and for a second he thinks she’s about to say something but then the waiter comes fluttering over to ask if they’re enjoying their meal so far, and Gold’s not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that whatever had passed between them has gone, as delicate and intangible as the ray of sunshine that makes their wine glasses glint.

Shortly afterwards the sirloin beef with potato dauphinoise and shrimp sitting in a garlic sauce arrive and the conversation fades away, to be replaced by a contented silence as they eat. Gold takes another sip of wine and covertly watches Belle, her lips glistening with the sauce and for a moment he’s filled with a terrible urge to lean across the table and lick them clean.

Christ on a bike.

What is he thinking? This is all fake, none of it real. Belle’s not interested in him. She’s interested in keeping her would-be suitor at bay, nothing more nothing less.

Fuck.

Suddenly the wine tastes sour on his tongue.

Sensing that something is wrong, Belle rests her hand on his left wrist, which does absolutely not help to calm hims down. Fearing that she's going to feel his pulse racing, he carefully extricates his hand from her grasp, settling it on his leg, out of harm's way. 

“What’s wrong, are you feeling unwell,” she asks, sounding anxious.

“I’m fine,” he tries to reassure her. “Some wine just went down the wrong way, it’s really no matter,” and plasters onto his face a well-practiced look usually saved for those Storybrooke residents who slow up his coffee collection from Granny’s with their dithering over getting the right change or adding to their order.

Belle throws him a look that implies she'd like to probe further but instead silently hands him a glass of water with the order to drink. He does so, thanking god for a narrow escape, and savours the cool liquid hitting the back of his throat, restoring his equilibrium. He can do this. He can be the best friend possible to Belle, and then when it’s all over they’ll be able to laugh about it over a nice cup of tea.

“So Jane Eyre for you. What about me,” he asks and with that they’re back on safe ground again.

Belle grins around a mouthful of shrimp.

“Something dour and Scottish.” The mock glare thrown at her makes her chortle. “Which admittedly doesn’t narrow it down. Walter Scott?” Belle hums. “Robert Louis Stephenson perhaps" She cocks her head on one side like a bird, examining him in a way that makes Gold want to squirm. Her eyes really are too blue. "Because now I think about it, you are a bit like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. With Regina you're the King of Snark but with Henry, say, you're actually rather kind."

“You wound me.”

She scoffs. “I think it would take a lot more than a literary insult to wound you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just enjoys watching her playing out one of their favourite games.

“Modern crime perhaps. Ian Rankin?”

Now it’s his turn to scoff. “Please Belle, give me some credit.”

“Snob”

“No I just have taste,” he retorts before chewing reflectively on the final piece of steak. It really has been an excellent meal. Belle is chasing the last morsel around her plate, pink tongue sticking out in concentration and his stomach does another one of those flips.

“Use some of the bread,” Gold leans over to whisper but Belle looks shocked at his suggestion. “This is not that sort of establishment,” she admonishes.

“Suit yourself,” Gold shrugs and sits back to enjoy the inner struggle between good manners and the need to mop up the last traces of that sauce taking place across the table from him. 

Appetite finally wins out. 

Once both plates are empty, Belle leans back in her chair with a satisfied sigh and then continues her teasing, unabated.

“So no low brow crime writers. What about high brow crime instead.”

Gold’s brow furrows as he casts around in his mind for any suitable authors but comes up blank. 

Belle’s too impatient to wait him out. "Arthur Conan Doyle."

“Too dry for me.” 

He’s enjoying this almost too much but eventually takes pity on her and offers up a hint. 

“Think 18th Century. Think poetry.”

Belle pounces, as he knows she would. “Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie.”

Gold raises his glass in a mock salute.

“Let’s hope that you’re quicker off the mark when you’re being interrogated by the good sheriff.”

She sniffs. “I just thought Robert Burns was a bit obvious.”

He makes it clear he’s not so quietly savouring having bested the town librarian but then takes pity on her, suggesting dessert and Belle seems to be willing to let it slide in favour of a trio of chocolate, followed by coffee and petit fours.

00000

It’s close to midnight. Gold is seated in his favourite arm chair, brandy in hand, listening to Brahms’ violin concerto. The jacket, vest and tie have been lost but he’s still wearing the same dress shirt from lunch although the sleeves are rolled up and the top two buttons have been undone. 

He’d dropped Belle off at her cottage, making a big show of escorting her to the door and kissing her hand in farewell, conscious that this gesture is not going unnoticed by David and Snow Charming. He’d waited until Belle was safely inside before mock bowing at the school teacher and her husband; her muffled exclamation of embarrassment at being caught gawping helped ensure he’d kept the smile on his face for almost the entire drive home.

But now. Now he’s alone with just his thoughts for company, along with a rather fine Remy Martin.

Belle’s hand had felt warm beneath his lips, skin soft, nails short and coated in clear varnish. He thinks now, looking back, that perhaps he let his mouth linger a little too long before he’d straightened up; he’d certainly caught a strange look on Belle’s face that faded quickly but was, he has no doubt, one of horror. 

The brandy burns its way down his throat. 

Belle’s discomfort at even that level of contact doesn’t bode well for what may be required of him if they’re to put on a convincing show for the more perspicacious residents (Leroy may be a numbskull but Regina is nobody’s fool, sadly, and another proposition altogether). 

Gold stares regretfully at the bottom of his empty glass.

They haven’t had ‘that’ conversation yet; it’s one he is very much not looking forward to. He groans, playing it through his mind (“So Belle, tongue or no tongue?). His head slams back against the chair in the hope it might knock some sense into him. In a sense it does because he knows he’s completely, utterly fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

Belle’s phone rings at some horribly early hour the morning after the first date with Gold. Rolling over to see who’s calling, she sighs when Ruby’s name is displayed on the screen. 

She’s known that this conversation has been coming but it doesn’t mean she’s looking forward to it. A message pings up. It’s all in capitals.

COFFEE. THIRTY MINUTES. GRANNY’S.

Belle slides out of bed and throws on a loose fitting caramel coloured sweater and a pair of denim shorts before hastily trying to detangle her hair. A quarter of an hour later she closes her front door behind her and is on her way over to the diner, taking a moment to savour the warmth in the air and the lull before the storm.

Ruby’s already ensconced in their favourite booth, cup in hand. She waves enthusiastically at Belle, gesturing for her to get herself over there pronto. On taking a seat, Ruby barely wait long enough to pour a second cup of coffee before beginning her interrogation. All that’s missing is a spotlight being shone on Belle.

“You and Gold. Seriously. How did I not know? How did you not get around to telling me? One minute I was thinking you and Gaston were going to make a go of it, and then boom, the next you’re declaring your love for – well, let’s be frank here – the least loveable man in Storybrooke.”

Belle’s head is spinning. Perhaps that second bottle of champagne at lunch had been a mistake. But she’d needed something to steady her nerves because in hindsight instead of choosing for a first date the most hard-to-get-into restaurant in Maine, a smaller, cosier venue might have been a better launch pad for their pretend relationship.

So many dishes, so many knives and forks. And while Gold had looked like he was in his element, Belle had been only too aware of how the other diners looked, especially some of the women, with their catwalk dresses and designer purses. She'd felt exposed, and not in a good way.

“My head hurts,” Belle says plaintively and reaches for the coffee.

Just then the door opens and Belle can tell from the way Ruby’s eyes widen who’s just walked in. 

“Guess who’s just walked in?” Ruby hisses in poorly suppressed excitement.

“No idea.” Belle’s a terrible liar but luckily for her, Ruby is so caught up in watching the pawnbroker that she doesn’t pick up on the anxiety that is radiating from her friend in waves.

“A large black coffee please, to have in,” Gold says from where he’s standing at the counter.

Ruby pushes Belle’s foot with hers. “Well aren’t you going to go and say hello?” 

Belle realises that if she doesn’t start acting like Gold actually is her boyfriend and that she’s thrilled to see him Ruby is very quickly going to suspect that something is up so she smiles her brightest smile that fails to reach her eyes and says “I’ll be right back” before making her way over to him.

When she reaches Gold she tries to send him a silent message to just play along before standing on tiptoe to kiss him; nothing more than a light brush of her lips against his cheek. She can sense him tensing up so she squeezes his arm in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture.

‘Hi there,” she says in an approximation of a breezy greeting. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here this morning.”

Belle’s rewarded with a tiny quirk of an eyebrow so she ploughs on. “So – uh – I was having breakfast with Ruby and she’s keen to hear the story of how you asked me out…” 

Another twitch of those annoying eyebrows of his. God, he can be such a bastard when he wants. 

Belle tries to silently communicate with him to play along but he remains still and silent, seemingly content to throw his new girlfriend under the bus.

Except she’s not his girlfriend, she has to remind herself. Just as she’s tying herself into knots, Gold leans in to whisper in her ear but loud enough for those pretending not to be listening in (Granny Lucas for one, Archie for another).

“Well tantalising as that offer is, my dear, I wouldn't want to cramp your style. I know how the two of you enjoy a good old gossip.” His breath is warm against her cheek and normally this would be enough to melt her insides but the amusement shining in his eyes takes the edge off whatever it is she felt for that moment so she turns her back on him to stomp back to where Ruby is sitting, eyes wide, taking it all in.

“So he’s not joining us then?” 

Belle huffs. “Not very loverlike of him” Ruby observes before saying wistfully that she’ll have to put her “Hurt her and you’ll have me to deal with” speech on ice for the time being, for which Belle offers up silence thanks to the Gods for small mercies. 

Belle huffs again as she sees out of the corner of her eye Gold collect his coffee and then very deliberately choose a seat facing her and within earshot, but out of Ruby’s eye line. She is going to kill him for doing this. 

Slowly and ideally very painfully.

Ruby leans in and asks “So, is he a good kisser then?” 

It’s not just Belle who chokes on her drink. She hopes Gold’s throat is permanently burned – it certainly looks like it might be judging by the way he’s clutching his shirt collar. Serves him right, she thinks maliciously, and then decides instead of killing him, a judicious use of torture might suffice instead.

Risking a further quick glance at Gold, who seems to be a poor multi-tasker, dithering as he is between concentrating on mopping up the spilt coffee threatening to ruin his pants or listening in to their conversation. Belle smiles. 

“Well there’s this amazing thing he does with his tongue…”

00000

Gold is trying without discernible success to stop his brain from reliving exactly how Belle had described the way he’d tangled his hands in her hair, pinning her in place against the counter when he’d first made his move. If he didn't know better, he'd almost have believed her, her voice low and sultry as she'd warmed to the task of describing how talented he could be with his mouth. She'd certainly convinced Miss Lucas who'd been hanging on her every word.

He’s grateful for the distraction when the door of the shop is thrown open until the telltale clickety click of high heels tells him just who his new customer is. 

Gold takes his time in closing the book he’s currently restoring, carefully marking his page before coming through from the back of the shop. Belle, hands on hips, is standing there, a strange mix of irate and amused.

“Traitor.”

He moves a little closer to her. “That’s a little harsh seeing as how you’re the one who wasn’t sticking to the script.”

“Well I had to come up with something and you weren’t exactly helping.”

Belle moves a little closer to him. Gold thinks he can catch a faint hint of something floral in the air.

“You didn’t seem to be needing my help. Your imagination was doing all the work for you. Very impressively I might add.”

He thinks it might be jasmine.

“Now who’s being harsh?”

Gold tilts his head and looks at her and then holds his hands out to her in supplication. “True. That was perhaps a little uncalled for. But for the love of God give me at least a little warning the next time you see fit to share our secrets with Miss Lucas. You know, to help avoid third degree burns and a trip to hospital.” 

He’s relieved to see her eyes dancing in amusement.

“Did you manage to get the coffee stain out,” she asks with faux concerns. Gold can't help laughing.

“I did, thank you for asking. I’m not sure the pocket square is ever going to recover though.” 

Belle dips her head to hide a small smile and with that, a line is drawn under this morning's little show. He'd probably deserved it in any case for abandoning her. He won't make that mistake again. But now it's time to agree what their next date is going to be. 

“So, enjoyable though yesterday was, I suggest for our next..” he hesitates “...outing, we raise our visibility, go somewhere more public.”

Gold grinds to a halt as a rush of anxiety flows through him, shutting down his mouth if not his mind. Should they be treating their agreement as more of a business transaction. Is a contract required? 

As he stands there dithering about whether now is the right time to seek Belle’s views on whether they should put something in writing, she leaps into the yawning silence to suggest ice creams down by the docks, given how beautiful a day it is. Before he knows it they’ve settled on three o’clock and been strongly advised against wearing a suit and then – just like that – he’s alone again and wondering what in the name of all that's holy he is supposed to wear. He doesn't think he owns anything apart from dress shirts and three piece suits. 

Does this mean Belle doesn't like him in suits? 

Frowning, Gold decides to lock up the shop and go home to reassess his wardrobe.

 

“Well, don’t you look nice?”

Gold glances down at himself, not entirely convinced. He’s managed to dig out a pair of jeans and matched that with a white shirt and beige suede loafers. He feels wholly underdressed and worries that the shirt might be a little see-through.

Belle on the other hand. There, there’s no question that she looks ‘nice.’ She’s wearing a pale blue sleeveless sundress adorned with tiny red birds and strappy sandals showing off crimson nails. She looks - perfect.

“Thank you?” he aks doubtfully but Belle just chuckles and tucks her hand in the crook of his arm and leads him, like a lamb to the slaughter, in search of cholesterol raising confectionary.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so informally dressed,” she says before adding hastily, “not that I don’t like you in suits. Because I do. You – er – suit suits…but you, you look – um – well you look great in white. It complements your tan.”

There’s a lot of words coming out of Belle’s mouth for Gold to process, most of them – good, he thinks. He picks them over and concludes that despite his earlier mini crisis, he must look reasonably ok in his usual work attire and that white is not the worse colour on him. 

Glancing across at Belle, who has gone quiet, he can see a very faint flush across her face and realises she needs to be out of the sun. Luckily they’re not far from their destination so he can soon have her in the shade.

“Mr Gold!” Young Mr Mills seems to be always popping up when least expected. “Belle!”

And. Oh Christ. Regina. This is not what he needs.

Regina glides to a halt in front of them, eyes darkly amused as she glances from Gold to Belle and back again.

“Well now isn’t this nice to see. The lovebirds.”

Gold barely keeps in the yelp when Belle pinches his arm. He thinks she put a little too much force into it but he pins his best neutral look on his face.

“Regina.’

“I barely recognised you without the suit. Nice shirt, Gold.”

He grinds his teeth, disliking the knowing look being thrown his way.

“Good to see that Miss French is having a good influence on you.” She pauses, and then turns to Belle. “Maybe next you could try to get him to have a decent haircut.”

Belle stares back at Regina, clearly unafraid of going toe to toe with the mayor. “Oh I don’t know. I like to have something to hold on to.”

Gold doesn’t know where to put himself, he’s dying inside but Belle’s firm grip on his arm keeps him grounded and he manages to pull himself together sufficiently to be able to throw a shark's grin, all teeth no warmth, at Regina.

Regina looks like she doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or secretly impressed at Belle’s snap and crackle response. A cursory nod, a flash of white teeth, and she drags Henry - who can be heard protesting as his voice fades away that he’d not had time to chat with them and didn’t she think they made a cute couple – in the direction of town.

“Well,” Belle says. “The nerve of the woman.” She glances at Gold, an embarrassed grimace on her face. “Uh – look I’m sorry about what I said. It was the first thing that came to mind.”

“It’s no matter,” Gold replies coolly, as if his heart isn’t beating at a hundred miles an hour. “I commend you for thinking on your feet and for ridding us of her annoying presence. Now - where were we?” and he gently steers her in the direction of the ice cream parlour, hand in the small of her back, as solicitous a boyfriend as you could hope to see.

 

A few minutes later and Gold is tiptoeing through the minefield of which flavour ice cream to choose. Personally, he rather likes vanilla. It’s a classic for a reason after all but will Belle think he’s being boring and safe? Will she assume that if he likes vanilla ice cream that he’s vanilla in the bedroom, that he only has sex in the missionary position and doesn't know how to make a woman beg for more.

Not - he hastily reminds himself - that she’s ever going to find out. But maybe he should challenge himself, push himself a bit, show that it’s never too late to change, prove to Belle he may have grey hair and crow's feet but he still knows how to move with the times.

“I think I’ll go for one scoop of green tea and one of bacon and maple syrup.”

There’s a murmur in the queue behind him and he thinks he hears someone say ‘bold choice’ which makes him preen a little. Belle is staring at him as if he’s gone completely mad but then she smiles fondly before selecting chocolate and hazelnut. 

They find a bench in the shade where Gold eyes his concoction with misgivings. The green and red are off-putting and he knows it’s going to be grim. He sticks his tongue out for a tentative lick and turns to see that Belle is watching him, eyes on his face, oblivious to the fact that her ice cream is starting to melt and trickle down her hand.

“You alright there, Belle,” he asks and she startles before laughing quietly to herself.

“Yes, I’m fine thanks. I’m just a bit surprised at your choice. I’d expected you to go for something more – traditional.”

He tries not to sound bitter when he replies. “Let me guess. Vanilla.”

Belle shrugs. “Or chocolate. Or strawberry. They’re popular for a reason after all.”

Now it’s Gold’s turn to watch as a pink tongue chases melting chocolate and his pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, so tight he has to try and subtly rest one hand on his lap and adjust himself. Jesus wept, anyone would think he was a teenager in thrall to raging hormones instead of a middle aged man. He tries to distract his mind and his unwelcome resurgent libido by thinking of drowning puppies and Granny Lucas; not necessarily in separate scenarios. 

Risking a quick glance down, he’s relieved to see his problem has subsided and for probably the first time in his long and misspent life he sends the diner’s owner a silence thanks. Belle's still looking ahead, concentrating on her ice cream. 

He takes another mouthful of his own cone before admitting defeat.

“Sod it,” Gold exclaims and drops the rest on the ground where it’s immediately seized upon by half a dozen or so gulls. “I’ll be back in a minute Belle,” he says and disappears off to return soon afterwards with a vanilla cone and an air of faint triumph.

Belle sensibly says nothing; the only acknowledgement a tiny smile. They sit in contented silence, watching the locals stroll along the promenade, seabirds circling above them. Feeling emboldened for some reason - perhaps it's due to the warmth of the afternoon sun - Gold waits until Belle’s just taking the last mouthful before he murmurs, playfully.

‘So is there anything else you like to hold on to?”

He’s delighted to see enormous eyes staring at him, the same colour as the sky, and cheeks dusted with colour. 

The smile he shoots at Belle is evil. “Good to know, Miss French, good to know.” And he settles back down to enjoy the rest of their afternoon together.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s so early when Gold wakes that there’s only a smudge of pale orange on the horizon when he peers blearily out of his bedroom window.

He’s slept badly. But then – sadly – this is nothing new. Tossing and turning has become a depressingly normal part of his nightly routine, his mind unhelpfully busy with images of Belle licking ice creams, Belle wearing summer dresses, Belle’s breath hitching as he slowly undoes…

Knowing there’s no point in going back to bed, he pads downstairs to his kitchen, enjoying the sensation of warm feet against cold black and white stone tiles, to carefully select a bone china teapot (white with a silver rim) and matching teacup and heap in two teaspoons of loose tealeaves. He absentmindedly watches the steam curl around his fingers before he slots the lid into place. 

If that doesn’t perk him up, nothing will. 

He and Belle are a week into their plan and if he’s completely honest, it’s not clear exactly how well it’s going and what needs to be done next. The last two days he’d been toying with the idea of calling it quits but then last night Belle had rung him, sounding distressed, to say that Legume had been waiting for her outside the library when she closed up, pleading and cajoling with her to go for ‘just one beer’.

And being told that has helped strengthen Gold’s resolve because he knows now that Legume is never going to give up his pursuit of Belle – and it’s not just because he’s an arsehole but because that insufferable buffoon just can’t get his head around what Belle might see in a man whose idea of a good time doesn’t involve a crate of beer and chasing anyone in a skirt.

Gold snorts as he stirs the pot, waiting patiently for the kitchen clock to tick over to 5.43am which means the tea will be sufficiently steeped. 

Good time indeed. If Legume fails to desist from making Belle’s life a living misery, he will be finding out that Gold’s idea of a good time involves beating thugs to a pulp.

A few minutes later and Gold is just starting to relax a little as the caffeine kicks in when the chime of the doorbell brings him out of a reverie that involves in no particular order cracked ribs, black eyes and an expensive trip to hospital.

On opening the front door, he’s less surprised than he should be to see Belle standing there, looking nervously over her shoulder. On turning to face him, he sees with a jolt the dark shadows under her eyes. 

Gold mentally upgrades Legume’s injuries to a cracked skull, loose teeth and a leg fracture or three.

“Can I come in? she says quietly.

“As if you have to ask,” Gold gently rebukes her. “I’ve got a fresh pot of tea on the go,” and points in the direction of the kitchen. “After you” he says, offering her a mock bow and is rewarded with a tiny smile.

He watches as she makes her way along the corridor, nerves bundling together in the pit of his stomach. Something must have happened to drive her to him so early on the weekend.

Once she’s settled, Gold bustles around, choosing a cup and saucer he thinks will please her; a delicate thing, all tiny rose buds, edged in gold. Sure enough, as he leans over to pour, he sees her turning the cup in her hands, admiring the decoration.

“Cute.”

“Only the best for you my dear. Now, what brings you here in the middle of the night. Something troubling you?”

Belle sighs. “I couldn’t sleep, not after last night and there’s only person of my acquaintance who can knock some sense into me.”

“And Miss Lucas was in an alcohol assisted stupor, I assume.”

Belle fires him a mock glare.

“That was just a quip.” Gold leans forward, steepling his fingers.

“Not a very funny one,” Belle shoots back and he places one hand over his heart.

‘You assault my front door bell, drink all my tea and then insult me. I have no idea why I tolerate you.” Gold’s tone is soft and teasing and he watches as his words have the desired effect. Belle’s stiff back unbends a little and he knows she’s going to be fine because on the outside Belle French may be all soft curves but inside she is made of stern stuff. He sees a retort forming on her lips.

He speaks again. “Before you say anything you regret, would you like some toast and eggs. I could knock up an omelette if you like, unless it’s too early?” 

“Yes please, that sounds wonderful. Runny if you don’t mind.”

Gold, who’s already on his feet, waves an imaginary spatula in the air. “As you wish.”

 

Half an hour later and they’re both feeling happier with life now that they’re full of egg, granary toast and several cups of tea. But they can’t put off the conversation for ever.

Sighing, Gold pushes his empty plate away.

“So - Gaston.”

He hates the look just saying his name brings to Belle’s face.

She brushes a curl aside that’s laying against her cheek. “He’s just so – “

“Stupid?”

“That’s putting it mildly. I mean just how many times do I have to tell him I’m not interested. Do you know how many messages he sent me last night?” Gold shakes his head. “Twenty. All of them starting with ‘Babe’ and he knows I hate being called that.”

Belle pushes her plate away as well, muttering ‘babe, honestly’ under her breath. Gold watches her silently for a beat or two and then reaches a decision.

“I believe it’s time to up the ante. Since subtle isn’t working, let’s take it to him, get in his face a bit.” 

Belle’s eyes are on his now and he has to remember how to breathe because they are so blue, and filled with hope. In, out. In, out. 

Happily for him seeing as how he’s having to focus solely on not expiring, Belle doesn’t seem to need him to come up with a plan. She’s suddenly on her feet, talking so quickly he’s struggling to process the string of words being flung at him.

“The Rabbit Hole. That’s where he’ll be tonight, with all his mates, Keith Nottingham, talking trash, playing pool and getting smashed. So here’s what we do. We’re going to turn up and put on a show for him.”

A sinking feeling starts to settle uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach that is soon joined by a healthy dose of dread where they jostle violently for supremacy as Belle spouts words like ‘handsy’ and ‘all over each other’. Oblivious to Gold’s rapidly approaching panic attack, she informs him there’s no time like the present to design his outfit for tonight’s foray into madness and before he knows what’s hit him, Belle is propelling him out of the kitchen and upstairs. 

“Which one is your bedroom?’ 

Gold doesn’t know how many times he’s fantasised about Belle French asking him that very question but he has to be honest that none of the scenarios that have played out so far in his mind have been quite like this. Those had started with frantic kissing, stroking, his hands tangled in her hair, her hands undoing his belt buckle and ending with damp sheets and loose limbs. This is leaving him feeling very much out of his depth, and not in a good way.

Trailing forlornly behind Belle, Gold wonders just how his morning has so rapidly unravelled, until they reach what until ten minutes ago he’d viewed as his sanctuary. He keeps to the early morning shadows, studying the way the light creeps across the wooden floor boards, completely at a loss as to how to proceed until a small cry of delight and the creek of a door being opened, followed by the sound of coat hangers being moved along a rail tells him a difficult morning lies ahead.

Still. At least one of them is having fun. He only just ducks in time as first a burgundy shirt, then a navy blue one, sails past his head to land on his unmade bed.

“D’you have anything in here apart from formal dress shirts?” Belle asks, her voice slightly muffled. A black and white checked shirt is waved at him. “And what the hell were you thinking when you bought this?”

He huffs indignantly. “Give it here.” 

The attempt to snatch it from Belle fails. She emerges from the depths of the cupboard gripping it tightly like it’s some sort of trophy.

“Do you wear it when you go to fancy dress parties where the theme is “Debt Collector.”

“Ha bloody ha. You’re a real comedian.”

“Comedienne.”

“Whatever.” 

Belle smirks and then turns to continue rifling through his clothes. While she’s busy, he quickly smooths out the bed sheets and straightens the duvet cover before seating himself carefully on the edge of the bed, satisfied that at least some order to his world has been restored.

“Oooh. This is nice. I like this.” Belle shows him her newest prize. It’s an old denim shirt, and to be honest he’d had no idea he still had it. It looks to his eyes rather old and faded. “You should definitely wear it tonight.” 

Gold starts to protest but one stern look thrown his way and he mimes zipping his mouth shut.

“Good boy.” And for some reason, Belle saying that makes his cheeks heat. “Now try it on for me.”

He splutters out another protest but stops when Belle takes a step towards him. “Now” she commands and well if that doesn’t send a most unwelcome and badly timed rush of blood southwards. Suddenly very eager to turn his back to her, he gets to his feet, taking the offending article from Belle and holding it in front of him.

“I promise not to peek.”

“Again with the jokes,” Gold says as he pulls his pyjama top off over his head, ruffling his hair as he does so. He slides the shirt over his back, appreciating the cool fabric against his skin and slowly does up the buttons.

When he turns to face her, there’s an odd expression on her face and then she moves to stand in front of him and before he knows what’s happening, she’s gently smoothing down his hair. Gold tries not lean into her touch and then it’s over and she’s thrusting a pair of beige cotton trousers at him.

“Here, try these with it,” she says, eyes averted.

“Remember – no peeking,” Gold says, now completely bewildered by Belle’s rapid switches of mood. Her voice is a little higher than usual when she promises not to steal any glances his way.

Accepting that this day can’t get any stranger – he’s about to take off his pyjama bottoms with Belle French standing about five feet away from him – he decides to just get on with it. Off they come in one swift movement. And then he realises he hasn’t got anything on underneath. 

He is butt naked and just when he thinks things cannot get any worse his cock twitches with interest at being exposed to fresh air. All Belle has to do is turn around and…

Another twitch and his cock, nestled warmly between his thigh, visibly plumps up. Gold grabs the trousers and yanks them on. They’re a little tighter than he remembers, thanks no doubt to the rich diet he’s been having the last week or so, and when he tugs the zipper up, there’s a very clear bulge.

“You done there? I want to see what you look like?”

Fucking hell. She absolutely does not want to see what he fucking looks like with a raging hard on. Fuck.

“Just a second,” he says and frantically pulls the shirt loose so it covers the offending area and he can face Belle with impunity.

For a rather unsettling moment, he thinks Belle’s eyes run down his torso, lingering just a moment too long at his waist but then she’s looking him in the face and really, he needs to get a grip. She's hardly likely to be checking him out. 

There’s that look again that he can’t quite place. She licks her lips and then nods.“That will do. You will most definitely do.”

Neither of them say anything for what feels like a long time but then Belle beams at him.

“Right, well, I should leave you in peace.”

There’s no chance of that anymore but Belle doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ll see you out,” he offers, relief and what could almost be disappointment flowing through his veins, and then ushers her downstairs. At the door he looks down at her, hesitating for a moment.

“Will you be alright Belle?” he asks. “Any sign of trouble and you call me straight away.”

Belle's laugh makes her eyes sparkle. “I feel a hundred times better now I’ve seen you,” she replies. “I’m going to call Ruby and get her to come over and help me choose my date dress for this evening. Come and collect me around eight o'clock.”

Gold manages to suppress a shiver at the thought of what Ruby Lucas is going to be advising Belle to wear. He suspects a long night lies ahead of him. It’s going to be torture.

Absolute torture.


	6. Chapter 6

From his position in their booth, Gold can see Belle at the bar, standing on tiptoes despite the towering heels, ordering the fuck knows what because it’s getting late, they’ve been drinking pretty solidly for the last two hours and he strongly suspects neither of them have the mental faculties they’d arrived with; hence the steady flow of increasingly bizarre drinks.

He takes a moment to very carefully not ogle her bum, which some (not him) might say is looking remarkably pert, clad as it is in some sort of form fitting sequinned fabric that is nothing if not highly flattering in the way it accentuates her curves.

Over at the pool table Gaston and his numbskull pals are taking it in turns to either line up the next shot or ogle the table of women nearest them. He’s surprised that Miss Swan has let them get away with the catcalls but the night is yet young, and judging by the way her hand is gripping the glass in front of her, there's still time for an eviction. 

One can but hope.

He turns his attention back to Belle. When he’d smartly rapped on her front door at exactly three minutes past eight o’clock, he had not expected her to look fucking good enough to eat. Gone were the soft flouncy tops and floaty skirts he’d become accustomed to and in their place was an outfit that had made his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth, and his cock too hard.

A quick twirl had shown him her dress in all its glory and which did very little to make him feel any less aroused.

A plunging neckline. Backless. Tight. Very, very tight. And short. Extremely short.

“How do I look?’ Belle had trilled, oblivious to the effect she was having on him. 

Realising that honesty might not be what she wanted or needed, he’d contented himself with a more appropriate response; that she should wear sequins more often. Judging by the way Belle’s eyes sparkled nearly as brightly as her dress, Gold felt he’d just managed to dodge a librarian-sized bullet. He happily let her tuck her hand in the crook of his arm and say ‘Lead on Macduff’.

He was equally happy to be able to point out to her that that was in fact a misquote, which had led to a light-hearted debate about other Shakespeare quotes which had carried on for much of the evening.

Belle turns from the counter, a triumphant grin on her face, clutching two lurid coloured cocktails, festooned with glace cherries, chunks of pineapple and – god help him – paper parasols. The grin is soon wiped off her face though when Legume steps away from the pool table to stand in front of her, blocking her path.

The noise level in the Rabbit Hole drops to an anticipatory hum as its patrons sense that things are about to liven up. 

“A little thing like you shouldn’t be carrying those,” is, in Gold’s view, an opening gambit unlikely to woo any lady, let alone Belle so he’s impressed when she asks, politely enough, if he could move out of her way. She demonstrates more self-control than he would have if the circumstances were reversed (although he can’t imagine anyone so doggedly pursuing him. Well, other than the mayor’s sister but she’s clearly deranged so that doesn’t count). 

“Belle. Bluebelle. Don’t treat me so cruel,” Gaston sing songs, looking back over his shoulder to make sure his cronies are watching and enjoying the show. “Why don’t you come over and shoot a couple of games of pool with the boys?” He crowds Belle, looming over her, to stage whisper for the benefit of everyone, “Grandad over there is looking a bit tired. How about letting us show him what a good time really looks like.”

Belle starts to reply but Gaston, clearly a man who likes to live dangerously, shushes her before very obviously looking her up and down. “And let’s be honest, that dress is wasted on Goldie. He’s not man enough to know what to do with someone like you. Me, on the other hand…” 

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence because the next few minutes are a whirlwind of chaos.

There’s a howl of outrage and the sound of breaking glass. Ruby Lucas moves at incredible speed considering the number of empty bottles adorning the table she’s sharing with Emma Swan and Mary Margaret but even she can’t beat Gold, who is at Belle’s side in a matter of moments.

Legume is staring down at his once white shirt, which is now covered in bright pink and blue splashes and reeks of bubble gum (Gold can’t help thinking that one man’s loss is another’s gain).

“You bitch.”

There’s a swish of something moving fast through the air and then Legume is bent over double, wheezing in pain. Gold stands close by, leaning heavily on his cane and looking for all the world like he can barely stand.

The sheriff wades her way through the throng, handcuffs swinging from one hand.

“That’s quite enough,” she shouts. “Back off everyone.”

Another yowl.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that, Ruby.”

Ruby grins unrepentantly.

“Up you get Gaston,” Emma says and when he makes no attempt to move, she grabs him by the arm and hoists him to his feet in a way Gold cannot help but silently admire.

“That crazy bitch…” Gaston starts to say but stops when the bracelets are snapped around his wrists. It's a foolish man who parts the sheriff from her beer.

“You’ve said quite enough for one night. Time to cool off in the cells.” Emma doesn’t suffer fools gladly and hauls him away, his vocal complaints fading into the night.

“Alright folks, the entertainment’s over,” Jeff calls from behind the bar, and soon enough a steady murmur resumes.

00000

Gold is now sharing a booth with not just Belle, but Miss “Don’t call me Miss Lucas” Lucas and Mrs “Call me MM, everyone does” Charming. Belle is sitting far too close to him for comfort, a bare thigh radiating heat against his, so he doesn’t know where to look because when he does accidentally glance at her there is so much flesh. There are calves. And décolletage. And shoulder blades. 

But then opposite him are two sets of beady eyes that are surely looking too focused and too interested for this time of night so he’s not massively comfortable making contact with them, either. Belle's friends have so far demonstrated remarkable self-restraint, contenting themselves with small, happy sighs every time Belle’s arms brushes his, or he places a hand over hers but it’s getting close to midnight and the lurid cocktails have long since been replaced by a bottle of scotch – the good kind that Gold pays to keep behind the bar for occasions such as this. The level is dropping at an alarming rate but it seems that Belle is the only one of them who can't hold their drink. 

He sees Ruby lean in for the kill, a gleam in her dark eyes, her teeth white in the bar’s gloom. Luckily for him her focus seems to be trained on Belle.

“So, come on then Belles, spill the beans on your boyfriend. We're dying to know why you think he's The One. MM reckons he can make you come over and over again, just using his tongue." Mary Margaret swats Ruby's arm, a faint flush appearing across her cheeks, but Gold notes that she doesn't deny it. The quiet ones are always the one to watch."

He feels, not sees, Belle stiffen but because she’s slightly tipsy it’s hard for her to maintain this stance and before long she slumps gently sideways until she’s settled into his side. He instinctively brings his arm around her waist and thinks how nice it feels to have her snuggling against him. 

He looks up to see Ruby watching him closely. She smirks. "Me I think it's more to do with his fingers. They're very - long."

Gold can't believe what he's hearing but Belle is either oblivious or completely used to them. Oh to be a fly on the wall at their get-togethers.

“His hair. I loved his hair. Still love his hair. So smooth and silky.”

Belle turns to Gold and fixes him with she thinks is a stern look but comes off more as an affectionate glare. “You’re a silver fox, Alexander.” He’s just parsing the words coming out of Belle’s mouth when a small hand reaches out and starts to stroke the strand of hair falling over his forehead and his brain comes skidding to an emergency stop. “Soft. Very soft.’

A gurgle of mirth from across the booth breaks through the mists clogging Gold’s brain and he looks over to see Mary Margaret looking delighted.

“What else Belle?” the school marm probes. “We get you like his hair but what else?”

Belle seems to warm to the task in hand and rushes to list all his physical attributes.

“He’s got a gold tooth. Show them,” Belle demands (so bossy) and to ward off any attempt by her to prise his jaw open, he obligingly bares his bottom teeth.

“Classy,” Ruby chortles.

Belle huffs. “Well I like it,” she says defiantly. “It feels good when he’s…”

The shriek that ensues almost burst Gold’s eardrums. 

“Ew, enough alright,’ Mary Margaret says, and takes an extra large gulp of scotch.

It seems Belle has missed her vocation in life. She’d have made a fortune on the stage.

As if sensing he needs reassurance, she runs his hand through his hair again, and Gold has to demonstrate real restraint in not leaning into her touch, and purring like a kitten.

Belle’s voice is a little softer now. “But you know when I knew I was in trouble? I’ve never much liked brown eyes, it’s always been blue or green for me. Brown eyes can look a bit flat sometimes, hard to read. But one day we were in the shop - it was sweltering - and I was struggling to pull the blinds down. Alexander came across to help me and as I glanced up he looked down at me. And seriously, my heart stopped. Because his eyes were this amazing shade of amber and his pupils were huge and it was like I could see into his soul.”

She stops abruptly and takes a sip of her own drink and Gold thinks she’s realised she’s over-egging the pudding because no one is going to believe her if she carries on like that. Eyes like amber indeed. More like instant coffee.

Belle sits quietly and he thinks perhaps he should take over and give her a rest so he eyes their inquisitors. “Not interested in hearing my side of the story then?” he asks, half-jokingly, half in earnest.

“Well if you’re telling,’ Ruby replies. She eyes him for a moment. “So, what are the three things you most love about Belle?”

Gold pauses. Trust the Wolf Girl to go for the jugular. He’s not sure what he should be saying here, is honesty the best policy or should he give them what he imagines they want to hear?”

“Well she does have an accent once heard you’d find hard to forget,” he opens with but Ruby’s less than impressed.

“Oh, come on Gold, you can do better than that.” 

He grits his teeth. “Fine, Miss Lucas,” he says with heavy emphasis on the ‘Miss’, ignoring the glare she throws him. “Well – one - besides the obvious, how Belle looks, because well, I don’t need to tell you she’s a beautiful woman – I suppose it’s her ability to see the best in everyone. Even me.”

Gold’s clearly said something right if the chorus of oohs and aahs are anything to go by so he ploughs on.

“And then, two, of course, she’s incredibly smart, well-read, erudite. She can beat me at scrabble, complete a cryptic crossword by the time I’ve had my first coffee and debate the merits of Coleridge versus Wordsworth or whether Wuthering Heights is and I quote “A load of old tosh.” 

“Last but not least, she never bores me. She does the unexpected, she’s fearless and pushes me to do things I’d never dare to try by myself.” He turns to Belle, ready to whisper ‘bacon and maple syrup ice cream’ but the words never leave his mouth because before he can say anything, Belle carries out a manoeuvre which should by all accounts be deemed illegal that leads to her straddling him, her knees either side of his lap. Slightly off-kilter, she grips the top of his legs to try and keep her balance but in doing so accidentally brushes her fingers across his crotch. 

Gold doesn’t know who gasps the loudest, Belle when she obviously feels how hard his cock is underneath her hand or him when the friction he’s feeling almost overwhelms him. He tries to be a gentleman and encourage Belle to retake her place next to him but she only clings tighter to him, one arm now around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, the other, burning hot, cupping his now not inconsiderable erection. 

When Gold glances down he can see that Belle’s dress has ridden up, showing an expanse of creamy flesh and he knows that if he doesn't stop this now, there's only one way this evening is going to end, and he can't live with the guilt of taking advantage of his best friend when she's this drunk, however badly he wants to taste her skin, feel her tongue against his, be moving slowly inside her.

He leans forward and whispers in Belle’s ear. “I think you’ve made your point. It’s probably safe to drop the act now.”

“Who’s acting?” she whispers back, sounding surprisingly sharp.

“You’re drunk and you are going to regret this in the morning. You know it.”

"I've not had that much to drink," Belle protests, wriggling in his lap like a slippery eel and if he isn’t very careful, Gold is going to come in his pants like a randy sixteen-year old. 

“Belle, for the love of god, stop doing that,” he pleads, trying to pin her in place.

“Ask me nicely.” Another strategic squirm that has him counting to five, very slowly. And then another five seconds after that to be on the safe side.

“You want me to beg?” Even to his own ears he sounds incredulous. 

“Maybe.’ Her breath is hot in his ear. "In fact - yes, definitely. You begging is one of my top five fantasies."

Gold freezes. Fantasies. Belle has fantasies about him? 

He parks that thought to be picked apart at his leisure, and decides to humour her for the moment.“Then please, for the love of god, stop doing that. Your friends are watching, the whole bar is watching and I think they get that we’re dating so it's probably safe to say that our work here is done.”

Belle sounds a little disappointed. “Not exactly the begging I had in mind but it’ll do for now I suppose.” Reluctantly, she slides off his lap. As she does so, Gold risks a glance downwards and his belly is filled with fire when he sees a damp spot just where the end of his shirt lies. 

Holy fuck. Maybe it wasn’t just an act.

"Up you get," he says, pulling Belle gently to her feet and notices for the first time that Miss Lucas and Mrs Charming have both taken the opportunity to leave them in peace. He silently thanks them for their tact.

It's time to get Belle home before everything goes to hell in a handcart.


	7. Chapter 7

Gold supposes that he really shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Belle French is the world’s chattiest drunk. He supposes he also shouldn’t have been in the slightest bit surprised by the fact that excessive cocktail consumption makes her disconcertingly tactile, if her wandering hands are anything to go by, as she tries to explore his shirt buttons (“so shiny, so tiny”). 

The short walk from the Rabbit Hole to her cottage seems to be taking forever, mainly because Belle is wrapped around him like a friendly, sparkly octopus and it’s hard to keep her hands from straying at the same time as gripping his cane. It makes his skin prickle, hot and uncomfortable, each time he feels Belle’s hands brush his skin and hears her murmur of satisfaction as she teases another button open.

And it ends up being a pyrrhic victory because when he does finally manage to loosen her grasp from the front of his shirt her hands immediately transfer themselves to his arse where her fingers proceed to squeeze his buttocks like a woman possessed.

“You’ve got a great ass.” Belle whispers warm breath in his ear that smells of rum and coconut.

Fuck. Fucking hell.

If only he’d not let his emotions, as well as his judgement, be swayed, Belle would already be at a safe distance - no doubt sleeping the sleep of the thoroughly inebriated - and he’d be back in his huge, lonely house staring at the bottom of a glass. But oh no, instead he’d allowed himself to be won over by a pair of beseeching eyes, swimming with unshed tears, and trembling pink lips when he’d talked of calling her a cab.

He’s an idiot. A fifty-year old idiot who should know better.

“You need to get your eyes tested,” Gold says (it’s not the best riposte he’s ever come up with but in his defence his body has never been under such sustained onslaught before, which is not exactly conducive to thinking up on-the-spot witty comebacks).

It seems his reference to visiting an optician has had quite the opposite effect to what he’d desired, instead setting Belle on a new and most unwelcome tack.

“I bet you’d look good in glasses.” She stops to squint at him. “Hmm. Very authoritative. I’d probably have to call you ‘Sir'.” 

Gold splutters, while also goggling over the fact that Belle can barely walk in a straight line yet use words of five syllables or more (how is that even possible?) and then splutters some more as Belle continues determinedly on a path leading them both to certain ruin.

“You’d ask what sort of punishment I thought I deserved before bending me over your knee and giving me a very thorough spanking. With extra punishment meted out when you see I've forgotten to wear any panties."

What the sweet fuck? Where is all this coming from? And just how much is she going to regret all this tomorrow morning?

The happy hum Belle makes as she nuzzles at his throat sends a pulse of arousal straight to Gold's groin. There are so many thoughts running through his mind he barely knows where or who he is anymore. Where is all this coming from? It seems he's read Belle "butter wouldn't melt in my mouth" French all wrong. Or perhaps there's always been the Belle French who lets Mrs Jennings keep that gardening book checked out for an extra week and the Belle French with hidden depths that have yet to be explored, who's unleashed after consuming her own body weight in neat alcohol.

Role play, for one. Punishment, for another.

Not – he hastily reminds himself – that it will be him doing the exploring.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime of verbal and physical torture from Belle, and a lot of coaxing and cajoling from Gold, they arrive at the cottage with his nerves in shreds. He's never been so pleased in all his life to see a front door. 

Except that even then, their little adventure is not quite over because it takes Belle ten minutes to find her keys and remember how to unlock her front door, in between small chuckles of amusement. When Gold had finally offered to take over door opening duties, she tells him off for fussing so throwing his hands up in defeat he’d proceeded to watch her empty the contents of her purse over the doorstep (how she’d managed to fit a book in there along with a packet of mints, a couple of sparkly hair accessories, powder and lipstick, a tiny red and yellow embroidered wallet and a packet of tissues he’ll never know). 

Still, looking on the bright side, this brief interlude as she rummages cheerfully through her worldly goods seem to help sober Belle up a little because Just when Gold has given up hope of ever getting inside, Belle cries in delight as the key finally slots in to place and she pushes the door open.

“Hurrah, we’re in,’ she says unnecessarily before tumbling over the doorstep and landing on her bum. “Oof.” Belle sits there blinking owlishly up at him, legs akimbo, the light catching the sequins on her dress, making them twinkle. 

“Need some help there?” Gold asks, trying not to laugh.

“Nah, I’m fine, just took me by surprise, that’s all,” Belle assures him and then bounces to her feet, chattering on about a nightcap.

Gold can see a real disaster unfolding if she gets her way about this. Their next meeting is going to be awkward enough as it is without further alcohol being added to the equation. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ he says, trailing after her as she trots towards what he assumes is her living room. He takes one step inside and then comes to an abrupt halt.

“Should we call the police to report a burglary?” he enquires as he swivels to take in what looks like the entire contents of Storybrooke Library. He doesn’t think there’s a single surface that isn’t covered with books; floor to ceiling vintage dark wood bookshelves filled with old hardbacks with gold lettering on their spines, reference books, field guides, contemporary fiction, the classics. And where there aren’t books there are knickknacks – a row of multi-coloured glass candle holders in rich blues and greens, a potted plant, tiny ceramic pots, a vase or two. It might be messy but it feels snug and homely and it suits Belle. 

Belle’s brow wrinkles as she tries to understand the point that Gold is making, the alcohol slowing down her normally rapid thought processes. He watches as she mulls over his statement and feels something warm settle in his stomach when he sees the penny finally drop. 

He hadn’t been lying when he'd told Ruby and Mary Margaret that one of the things he most admires about her is how smart she is.

“Rude,” Belle says, smiling brightly. ‘It’s not that untidy. Besides I’ve seen where you live and you’re a neat freak so everything looks like a mess to you.” She sweeps a small collection of paperbacks from what looks like an old and well-loved couch. “Take a seat, I’ll be right back, I’m just going to go change into something more comfortable.”

Gold’s about to do as he’s told when Belle waves in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Grab a drink while you’re waiting - if you fancy anything, there’s tequila, a bottle of red that’s open - but you’d probably turn your nose up at that - oh, or some vodka in the freezer if you’d prefer.” 

She leans down to unsteadily remove her shoes and he has to resist offering his help but almost as if she senses he’s holding back Belle looks over at him, her eyes tracking across his face. There’s a long pause during which they just stare at each other and then he realises that she’s simply waiting for an answer.

“Please tell me you’re not actually a student masquerading as an adult.” 

Belle smirks then and it’s all good. It’s all ok. “Ah yes, I forget that I’m talking to the only man in town who has his own wine cellar. Fine, if you want to be boring and staid, there’s peppermint tea or water in the fridge. Or just make yourself comfortable.”

The door clicks shut behind her and Gold sighs a sigh of relief. He needs just a few moments to himself because it’s been a rollercoaster of emotions this evening and he’s feeling exhausted. He taps his way into the kitchen and takes the water from the fridge, pouring it into two glasses left to dry by the sink. 

One sip, two sips and he relishes the feeling of something cold running down his throat after the cocktails and the best part of a bottle of scotch. It brings with it a sense of much needed clarity. 

Legume has surely got the hint now and if he hasn’t then Gold’s pretty confident that Ms Swan will pretty soon beat some sense into him. Sensible woman, the sheriff. He likes people who are straight talking, no-nonsense. He knows she won’t take any crap from a bully who thinks good looks and money can get him everything and everyone he wants. Which means Belle will no longer need Gold’s protection and she can get get her life, her friends back, maybe even fulfil her fantasies and find love and security. His work here is done.

Gold drinks down the rest of the water; a bitter taste in his mouth, and carefully places the glass, once rinsed, to drain. With careful deliberation, he rolls up first one sleeve, then the other. No time like the present, he thinks, to have the talk with Belle and then tomorrow they can both start afresh.

Returning to the living room holding the second glass of water, there’s no sign of Belle and no sounds coming from her bedroom. A glance at the wall clock tells him it’s way past two o’clock. He’s not sure how long he was in the kitchen for but he feels she should have been back out by now.

He stands by her door, feeling slightly nervous, as though he’s invading her territory, and then quietly calls her name.

Nothing.

This time Gold gently taps the door and when he doesn’t get a reply he very tentatively pushes the door open. 

Her dress has been thrown any old how on the rug by her bed and its owner is lying face down on a patchwork quilt, reddish brown hair covering half her face and most of the pillow, snoring gently and wearing (thank Christ) a pair of fluffy pyjamas with – are they dancing mice holding…balloons, footballs?

Deciding he’s overstepping all sorts of boundaries and that Belle would not be happy to wake to see him trying to decipher which mammals are adorning her nightwear, he carefully makes his way over to her, placing the water on her bedside table before pulling the cover over her. As he does so, she turns onto her side and mumbles something under her breath.

“Stay.”

*

He undresses her with eyes that are darker than sin. Tugs her close and pulls her hair loose so it tumbles in chaos around her shoulders. Unzips the dress that’s been designed purely with the aim of keeping him permanently hard. And then he slides it down over her waist, her hips, her calves until it pools by her feet. He kneels to unbuckle the ‘fuck me now’ shoes and then she’s left just wearing the sheerest of lingerie. He rises to his feet and holding her gaze reaches around her to unclasp a barely-there bra, all sheer silk, lace and ribbons. And then, never taking his eyes from hers, he slides his hands down, grazing her nipples so she gasps in pleasure but he doesn’t stop there. One hand tangles in her hair, the other inches its way down until it’s between her legs, where moisture is pooling. He holds her gaze and then slowly - so slowly - brings his hand to her mouth and growls “Can you smell yourself on me…”

“What the…”

Belle wakes with a start, her mouth tasting of carpet and fur. For a few moments, she lies there in bed, one arm flung over her eyes gasping for breath, heart pounding as she tries to understand why she feels so...hot. And so horribly unwell. Inch by inch she manoeuvres herself to the edge of the bed so one leg dangles over the side. 

She can do this. She can make it to the bathroom without being violently ill.

Belle makes contact with something hard but soft that tickles the sole of her foot. Prising open an eye she sees what it is; last night's dress. Ruby’s dress in fact, loaned to her with the promise it would drive Gaston mad with jealousy (Belle had felt more than a twinge of guilt at lying to her best friend about why she'd asked to borrow something 'mind-blowingly sexy').

Memories start to come flooding back.

The look on Alexander’s face when she’d opened the door to him (if she hadn’t known better she’d have thought she’d seen something predatory and dark flicker in those eyes of his).

White wine. 

Cocktails. Too many cocktails.

Scotch.

Dark eyes on hers when she’d spilled the beans as to why she liked the terror of Storybrooke, enjoying the way he'd watched her over the rim of his glass.

She suddenly sits bolt upright, ignoring the fact her head has feels as if it's been cut in half with a blunt knife

Please. No.

No. No. No.

She hadn’t, had she? She hadn’t actually said that to him? Not even she would be so stupid as to tell the actual person involved what exactly she’d like him to do to her.

Belle spots the water glass next to her bed and gratefully gulps every last drop down. The clock tells her it’s only just gone half past eight and she’s tempted to just slump back among the sheets and lie there for - ooh, let’s say the next twenty years or so, or until she starts to feel better, whichever happens first - but she’s loathe to miss the best part of the day so reluctantly she pulls on a dressing gown and pads out into the kitchen.

She stops dead. 

“Morning.”

Belle can’t quite believe her eyes. Perhaps she’s not actually yet woken up and this is a dream. That seems to be the only reason why Gold would be sitting there looking soft and rumpled and in the same shirt from last night minus a couple of buttons (which seems a little out of character for a man known for his immaculate appearance). There a plate with a half-eaten slice of toast in front of him. 

“What are you doing here,” she demands, for wont of a better question to ask.

“And a good morning to you too," Gold says, looking rather amused. He crunches on the toast and chews meditatively. “I believe your exact words last night were ‘stay’." He waves his breakfast at her. “Nice pyjamas by the way. Are they mice?”

Belle slumps into the chair opposite him. She does now vaguely recall asking him not to leave so decides it best not to pursue that particular line of enquiry.

“Hedgehogs. Where did you sleep?”

She sounds croakier than she’d like, which brings a rather unholy smile to Gold’s face that she’d like to wipe off if she only had the energy.

“On the couch. It’s surprisingly comfortable. But now I know you’re awake and haven’t smothered yourself in the night, I’ll be leaving you in peace.” 

Belle knows she's treating him rather shabbily - she vaguely recalls now the door key fiasco and can't help suspecting that she might possibly have something to do with the lack of buttons on his shirt so hands him a peace offering.

“Don’t you want to have a shower before you go? There are guest towels and I can find you a spare toothbrush. It’s no trouble, really. And er – I could make us some breakfast.”

She sees Gold hesitate and suddenly she desperately wants him to stay. “Please.”

A flash of crooked teeth. ‘Well as you ask so nicely.” Brown eyes, warmed by the morning sun, are on hers. “But you sit. I assume you’ve got coffee and eggs?”

Perking up a little at the prospect of caffeine and scrambled eggs, she smiles back at him.

“Coffee. Black. There's a French press over there and mugs are in the cupboard over the sink.”

She enjoys watching him potter around, shirt sleeves rolled up revealing lightly tanned arms, cracking eggs into a white china bowl, dolloping butter into the frying pan. It feels all rather domesticated and she wonders what it would be like to wake to this every morning, the aroma of fresh coffee and gentle chit chat over the toast.

Belle is so caught up in her daydream that she doesn’t pay any attention as Gold makes his way over to the sink.

“Any preference for a cup versus a mug,” he asks.

“Definitely a mug,” she replies and enjoys the view of his backside as he reaches inside the cupboard. 

Voice muffled she hears him insult her collection of chinaware. “Bloody hell, there’s mugs in here that have seen better days.” 

He fishes around for a bit and then Belle sees his body tense up. Almost in slow motion Gold turns round holding – oh god. It’s the mug that Ruby got her as a housewarming gift. 

"Is there something you haven't told me?" he asks in a chatty tone. He holds it out in front of him so she can see, just in case there’s any doubt as to what he’s referring. There's not because the letters are black, large and unmissable. "Mrs Gold?"

She’s going to kill Ruby.


	8. Chapter 8

The emergency summit at Granny’s where Belle plans to take Ruby to task over piping hot coffee and lemon muffins ends up with Ruby flopping around in her seat with mirth, utterly unrepentant, and gasping between whoops of laughter about how much she’d have loved to have seen the look on both their faces and demanding to know just how awkward and dorky – exactly - Gold had been. 

The answer was 'not at all.'

Belle thinks back to the way Gold had held her gaze, eyes dark and unreadable, expression inscrutable, as he’d taken the first sip of tea, long fingers curled around the ‘Mrs Gold,’ and heat curls in her stomach when she thinks of how he’d offered her a lopsided grin before quietly saying “Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”  
She’d laughed, then so had he, low and deep, and that it seemed was that - danger averted, allowing them to talk of safer things, like whether Gaston had enjoyed his night in the cells and how hard a time had Emma given him on the ride to the station (very hard, Belle hoped). And not talking at all about how they were going to extricate themselves from their dating predicament now that Gaston must surely know his number's up.

Several cups of caffeine and rounds of toast later and Belle was waving Gold off at the front door, a fond smile on her lips, having assured him she’d be at the shop bright and early the next day; on closing it she’d slumped to the floor groaning loudly, head in hands, before deciding she’d cheer herself up by punishing Ruby with an early morning phone call. 

00000

Gold’s pottering around his kitchen. Garlic and onions are frying on the stove with a pile of chopped fresh tomatoes ready to be stirred in and the mozzarella should soon be at room temperature. He enjoys cooking although he usually prefers to follow a recipe rather than make it up as he goes along unless it’s something safe like pasta. Finely cutting vegetables can be therapeutic, as can kneading dough and whipping egg whites. Savoury, sweet, roasting, grilling, baking – he enjoys it all although it’s never quite the same cooking for just himself. 

He pushes his shirt sleeves a little above his elbow to avoid them getting splashed and glances at the clock. It’s gone midday and therefore not too early to have a cheeky glass of red. There’s a bottle already open so he pours himself a smallish measure for now so there’s enough to have with the meal and takes a sip.  
Not bad, not bad at all. The garlic’s golden and the onions translucent so he tips the tomatoes into the pan and turns down the heat to let it simmer before picking up his wine and making his way to his study.

Gold loves this room. Dark wood panelling on two sides, burgundy wallpaper covering the others and thick velvet curtains that shut the rest of the world out when needed. A well-loved leather armchair, two bankers green reading lamps on polished brass stands; his arts and crafts oak writing bureau and shelves of reference books. And his pride and joy; a gramophone, with piles of records from the 1940s onwards – mainly classical but some jazz as well for when he’s in a more mellow mood. 

Gold selects a piano concerto and pulls the record from its sleeve. He slots it into place and carefully places the needle down. Warm sound and soft crackles fill the room and he settles down in the chair with a contented sigh. He's got an hour before he needs to check on the sauce so plenty of time to just read through a couple of legal documents he has to to sign; exactly what’s needed to help keep his mind from straying to Belle and wondering what she’s doing for the rest of the day.  
A quarter of an hour later and he’s tossing the paperwork to one side.

Belle French is going to be the death of him he decides, with her ability to wiggle her way into his thoughts and once there take firm root. Gold thinks back to their breakfast together this morning and that ridiculous mug and how it had made Belle squirm with embarrassment. He hadn’t been able to resist teasing her just a little – she’s too easy sometimes to wind up – but had stopped when he’d sensed how uncomfortable she was feeling and quickly changed the subject.

To Gaston Legume.

A sure fire way to put paid to Belle's wriggling in her chair. Indeed, the temperature in her kitchen had immediately dropped by at least twenty degrees. Gold wonders, with his legal hat on, if Miss Swan is going to want Belle to press charges or if she’ll let the imbecile off with a warning. He suspects Belle, soft hearted and gentle as she is, will be content with knowing that not even Legume is so stupid as to test Miss Swan’s love of justice and handcuffs and will leave it at that. Him – well he’s not so nice and given half a chance he’d do his very best to have that man behind bars so if the sheriff comes asking for a statement, for once he’d be more than happy to cooperate, and give a further twist of the knife. 

Gold takes a sip of wine. He supposes that with Belle’s would-be suitor now out of the way, there’s no need for Belle to keep up the pretence of a relationship. She can go back to nights out on the town with Miss Lucas, searching for Mr Right at the Rabbit Hole, and he can – he can go back to his solitary nights of drinking expensive scotch while listening to Mahler and Beethoven.

The thought fills him with something approaching close to dread so he shuts it down and makes his way back to the kitchen. Fifteen or so minutes later and he’s seated at the table, a plate of pasta in front of him, putting his cunning mind to good use by coming up with and then discarding all the ways he might be able to prolong his arrangement with Belle.

Because it’s better to be safe than sorry, err on the side of caution, as once they’ve officially broken up, there’ll be no going back. Once the news is out, Granny Lucas will probably chase him down the high street with a pitchfork before issuing him with a life time ban from entering the diner.

00000

Despite going to bed with a more positive outlook on the short-term lifespan on his arrangement with Belle, Gold has nonetheless slept rather badly, tossing and turning and fighting a losing battle with the duvet, which had led to him, before eight o’clock, opening up the shop and deciding to take apart a fob watch he’s been meaning to repair for the last six months or so. 

The innards of the watch are spread out across the counter, alongside a cup of now very tepid tea. He’s so focused on the task in hand that he startles when the door is flung open. Looking up, he expects to see Belle because the clock tells him it’s close to nine thirty but instead it’s Henry and he’s clutching a brown paper parcel in his hands.

“Henry. What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?” Gold’s smile is genuine and Henry beams back at him.

“I saw this on your doorstep and thought it might be important – were you expecting a delivery?” 

The package doesn’t look very impressive so Gold doubts very much that it contains anything of any value. Henry comes over the counter and places the bag between them and he and Gold scrutinise it carefully.

“Aren’t you going to open it,’ Henry asks eventually, his patience running out when it seems Gold is going to stand there forever.

Gold nods before gingerly pulling the object out. It’s wrapped in copious amounts of tissue paper and sellotape but he can tell instantly what it is. It’s a mug.

Henry’s bouncing on his heels by the time all the paper’s been torn away. Glancing across at him, Gold thinks to himself that at least one of them is having fun.

“What’s it say?” Henry wants to know, craning his neck to get a better look. And then bang on cue, the door opens again and in whirls Belle, skirt whipping around her knees, chirping that she’s sorry she’s late.

Perfect. Just – perfect.

She greets Henry with a grin and a wave, and comes over to join them.

“What have you got there?” she asks, inquisitive as always.

Gold continues to study the mug and then in silence he turns it round so they can both see. Judging by the expression on the boy’s face it doesn’t make much sense to him but Belle’s face tells another story. Eyes sparkling an impossible shade of blue there’s a light blush touching her cheekbones.

He'd thought to see dismay on her face but he supposes embarrassment is just as appropriate.

“An anonymous gift,” he says gruffly before adding “I’m guessing it’s someone with a sense of humour.” He eyes up his companions who are watching him with varying degrees of interest and hums as if giving it great thought. “Any ideas who that might be?” 

The question is directed at Belle but Henry immediately chips in with “Well in that case it definitely can’t be my mother.” 

The smirk on Belle’s face is fleeting but Gold sees and appreciates it.

“An excellent observation, young man,’ Gold says. “And I think on that basis we can also discount Mary Margaret and Doctor Hopper.”

This time the smirk lingers for a little longer and is accompanied by a gentle snort.

“I tell you what Henry. Given that you’re already running late for school and you don’t want to get into any trouble, why don’t you head off now and if you have any bright ideas as to the culprit, pop over this afternoon and we can discuss them over a pot of tea.”

Gold’s suggestion is rewarded with one of Henry’s bright smiles. He bids them both a very polite good day before grabbing his satchel and rushing out of the door, leaving Gold and Belle alone.

Gold picks up the mug and turns it around in his hands. “Well it seems we now have a pair. Mrs Gold…”

He pauses.

“…and Mr French.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Fucking idiot.”

Gold wants to bang his head repeatedly against the shop counter to see if it might knock some greatly needed sense into it.

Belle’s popped out to buy some blueberry muffins to go with their mid-morning tea, leaving him plenty of time to rue the fact that he might be old but he’s certainly not wise. Or brave, for that matter.

Instead of doing the right thing and telling Belle they need to call a close to their little charade now Legume is out on bail and has made a suitably shamefaced if not exactly heartfelt apology, the sheriff hovering within earshot, Gold has instead allowed their relationship to be dragged out for another five days, and each day has seen him fall even deeper down the rabbit hole, tumbling ever more deeply in love with his best friend. 

He’s weak. And a coward.

“For Christ’s sake, man up,” he tells himself. “Just call it quits.” His reflection stares back at him, revealing a slightly crazed looking man with hair that maybe needs a trim and a forehead with a few too many wrinkles adorning it. He looks every year of his age, and then some. He winces. It’s the price he’s paying for living a lie, even if it’s a lie that has allowed him to while away his time chatting with Belle in pleasant surroundings, eating expensive food while drinking vintage wine and spirits.

The jolly tinkle of the doorbell makes him want to take a hammer to it but at least it alerts him to the return of his five feet nothing nemesis who this morning is manging to get around in scarlet stilettos while wearing an altogether too tight for his comfort green dress adorned with red lace around the collar, that reminds him of a liquorice allsort. 

Good enough to eat.

Fucking hell, that’s made his trousers suddenly feel uncomfortably tight and he has to tell himself he is not some randy teenager with raging hormones but a saggy, wrinkly old man.

Willing his erection back down, he plasters on what he hopes passes for a convincing smile but he suspects is closer to a grimace as Belle, oblivious, thank Christ, to Gold’s growing - problem, places a bag between them on the counter. “No blueberry muffins, I’m afraid, but they had some cinnamon buns which I thought would make a nice change. And less fattening,” she says, patting her admirably flat stomach.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Gold snarks. “Wouldn’t want to undo all the good work of my fifty daily press ups.”

Belle gives him a quick once up and down which lingers for a moment too long on his paunch and he instinctively sucks in his belly while at the same time moving to lean on his cane, hiding his crotch from those blue, searching eyes.

“You’re a funny man, has anyone ever told you that?” Belle chirps and then bustles through to the back leaving him to adjust his trousers and listen to the sounds of domesticity he’s come to enjoy: a running tap, the click of the kettle, mugs clinking against each other, loose leaf tea being spooned into the pot. 

“Only you, Belle, only you,” he replies, because it’s true; only Belle French laughs at his snarky jokes, his acerbic barbs, his droll running commentary on Regina’s ambitions for the town every time they bump into her, eyes like flint, pursed lips the colour of blood. 

Because everyone else has the sense they were born with, he doesn’t add. Picking up a tarnished candlestick from the shelf behind him, he starts to half heartedly rub at it. Polishing is right up there with skin on rice pudding and sleeting snow as things he doesn’t much enjoy but at least it gives him something to do with his hands other than nervously rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and thinking about however awful this conversation is going to be, and the emptiness of his life without Belle to brighten it with her ready laugh and warm smile, he cannot keep putting off the inevitable.

Belle reappears, unaware of the turmoil churning in Gold’s stomach, carrying a tea tray on which sit a flowery sugar bowl and matching milk jug, a tea strainer and last – but very much not least – their matching mugs because that’s just what he needs, another regular reminder of what a fraud he is. Which in turn reminds him that there’s an overdue conversation with Miss Lucas to be had but so far every time he’s gone in search of her at Granny’s she’s nowhere to be seen; it’s almost as if she has a second sense where he’s concerned and knows when to make herself scarce. But there’s no rush; Gold is a patient man and he will eventually run her to ground and make her rue the day she thought it would be funny to mock him.

Belle snaps her fingers within a millimetre of his nose and then says fondly, as he jumps “You’re away with the fairies today.” She shakes her head, then tilts it to one side as she peers at him. “In fact you’re definitely off your game – you normally can’t resist winding up Leroy but today you just accepted his rent check without even a quip.” She moves closer to him and her scent carries – jasmine perhaps - to him as she jokingly places her cool palm against his forehead. “Just checking you haven’t got a temperature.

He laughs weakly. “I thought I was supposed to be the comedian,” and somehow resists leaning into her touch like a kitten seeking comfort. 

Some of his anxiety must be showing because Belle takes up her usual seat opposite him and leans forward to study his face before gently asking him if he’s alright, concern in her eyes. She looks worried, nibbling on her lower lip so he nods and then looks down at his hands, not able to stand the scrutiny being directed his way, and then up and across to where a blue and green glass mobile hangs in the window, spinning gently in the draught.

He finds himself mesmerised by the way the light catches the glass, making it sparkle and glint. It’s hypnotising, and very soothing to a mind that’s currently running wild.

A light tap on his knee brings him back down to earth. Belle’s holding that bloody mug, ready to take a sip when, head down, he suddenly bursts out with “Belle, it’s no use. I can’t do this anymore, we can’t. We can’t keep pretending to be in a relationship. It’s – it’s just not good for either of us.” 

He hears a gasp and then a crash. Belle’s dropped her mug and it’s shattered into razor sharp fragments between them. Time seems to freeze and then she asks, voice low and trembling, “You’re breaking up with me?”

Gold jerks his head up. “Wha - ? No, no I’m not breaking up with you because we were never together in the first place,” he starts to say because it’s true but it comes out all wrong. Belle’s staring at him, and he sees that her eyes are shining. One tear forms and then drops from her lashes to roll down her cheek. 

Belle dashes it angrily away while he watches, hopelessly, his stomach in knots, all his worst nightmares coming to life. He’s hurt the one person he loves more than anything in the world. He reaches his hand out to her but there’s a flurry of green and red and before he can even process what’s happening, Belle is on her feet and out of the door, letting it slam shut behind her, leaving him behind in the shadows.


	10. Chapter 10

Ruby’s staring at her with a look of such pure incredulity that if a razor blade hadn’t shattered Belle’s heart into a hundred thousand diamond-sharp fragments and left them lying on her bathroom floor, she’d have found it almost – almost – amusing.

“So, correct me if I’ve completely lost the plot here but you’re telling me that the last few weeks have all been a complete act? That you are not in fact dating Gold, that you are not - in fact - head over heels in love with the town curmudgeon?”

Belle sadly shakes her head as Ruby proceeds to tick off on the fingers of one hand a list of all the things she’s ‘seen’ happen between her and Gold, in a tone of growing incredulity.

“Those sneaky gooey-eyed glances he throws your way when he thinks you’re not looking. Fake? The proud look on his face every time you challenge him on literature, say, or American history, or call him out when he’s being rude. Fake? The not-so-subtle way he always checks you out when you wear heels. Or short skirts. Fake? 

Ruby leans back in her seat, fixing Belle with a piercing stare. “Nope. No way he was faking any of that. The man’s just not that good an actor.”

The tiny part of Belle’s heart that’s still beating stills for a moment at the thought of Gold running those dark eyes of his up and down her legs but then she reminds herself that Ruby is clearly deluded. Belle’s never seen him look at her in the way Ruby describes. Fond maybe, avuncular, even - but that’s as far as it goes.

Belle’s barely slept and she feels wrung out and exhausted. After waking before dawn and trying to write Gold several letters telling him how she feels, before screwing them up into tight balls and throwing them in the waste paper basket, she’d texted Ruby asking her if she could bear to meet for a coffee around seven o’clock before their respective shifts start. 

Ruby had promised she’d be there on the dot and not for the first time Belle thinks she’s incredibly lucky to have such loyal, sympathetic and willing-to-get-out-of-bed-at-the-weekend-at-a-moment’s-notice friends. 

When Belle doesn’t respond to Ruby’s list of things Gold’s not so secretly been doing, Ruby pushes relentlessly on. “Fine, have it your way. But in that case, just what the hell have the two of you been playing at and why didn’t you tell me it was all just a cunning wheeze you thought up to get rid of Gaston instead of keeping me in the dark?” 

Well. Maybe more loyal than sympathetic.

Ruby looks justifiably annoyed and bemused in equal measure. “And now I think of it, if it really was this sham relationship you’re so insistent it was, then why are you sitting here looking like your puppy’s just died?” When no response is forthcoming, she continues, “because surely you’ve got exactly what you wanted? Gason’s out of the picture for good, Gold’s back in his lair doing his shady as fuck debt collecting, meaning you should in fact be running up and down the high street yelling ‘Thank fuck I’m rid of both of those prize idiots” 

There’s a loud ‘ahem’ from the booth behind theirs and something like ‘young people today’ and ‘how vulgar.’ Ruby smiles wolfishly before she says, very loudly “Why don’t you just butt out?” resulting in Madam Mayor calling for the check and dragging Henry out, his faint protests about not having finished his grilled cheese lingering in the air long after the door’s slammed shut behind them.

Ruby, looking pleased at this minor victory, turns back round to focus back on her primary victim, who visibly sinks down into her seat. “Unless of course there’s more to this than you’re telling me.”

Belle feels a burn in her gut of something rather like fear. Fear that Ruby is about to uncover Belle’s secret; that she’s horribly in love with a man who has made it painfully clear to her that he doesn’t feel the same way. 

She buys herself a moment’s breathing space by taking a sip of her iced tea but it turns out to not matter anyway because Ruby is off again, on a bit of a roll. And this time her line of questioning moves into more uncomfortable territory. 

“Like,” her friend asks, brown eyes firmly fixed on Belle. “Why Gold? I’d have thought he’d be the last person on earth who’d agree to do something like this.” She pauses. “Unless…” and Belle knows what’s coming, knows Ruby’s guessed her secret, and her head feels fuzzy, anxiety building in her chest, making it hard to breathe, harder still to focus on what’s being said. “Unless he’s holding something over you.” 

And Belle exhales, relieved that Ruby’s way off.

Like…” Ruby pauses as she tries to come up with something that Storybrooke’s librarian could be blackmailed with, before grinning sharply, white teeth on show. “He discovered you in the adult literature section, skirt up around your thighs, panties on the floor, with your hands between…”

Belle’s squawk of dismay brings her friend to a welcome stop – for a moment at least. “Oh my God,” Ruby gasps, a look of unholy delight on her face. “Really? You were…”

Another squawk, this one a lot louder. “Shut up will you?” Belle hisses, blushing and painfully aware that Granny is now shooting them both suspicious glances from behind the counter. “It’s, it’s nothing like that at all. Seriously. I’d never – I’d never do something like that at work. And definitely not thinking about Gold.” At Ruby’s delighted laugh, Belle stutters to a halt.

“I don’t think I ever mentioned Gold, did I?” Ruby purrs, all false innocence. “But now you’ve really got my attention. I bet he can do all sorts of interesting (and the way she says ‘interesting’ makes Belle’s toes curl) things with his cane, right?”

Belle’s face is now the colour of an over-ripe tomato and it takes a great deal of effort to dig herself out of the huge hole she’s inadvertently made for herself but sticking determinedly to the party line, Belle insists, “Gold was doing me a favour. Because we’re friends. Because I trust him, Ruby. And besides who else could I have asked. David? Archie?”

Ruby pulls a face. “You could have asked anybody in town, just about. You know, anyone under the age of fifty, anyone who doesn’t look they want to impale every other living soul with a cane.” With an evil smile, Ruby adds quietly, “although maybe that is why you asked him,” which makes Belle lean over and pinch her former friend’s arm. The yelp is very satisfying.

“Hell, you could have asked me.” 

Belle snorts into her drink before replying. “Actually, you know what? That really would have stopped Gaston in his tracks.” The thought of how appalled he’d have been seeing Belle and Ruby making out in the Rabbit Hole cheers Belle up a little. “Maybe next time, eh Rubes?”

They’re sharing a small moment, savouring the idea of making Gaston die of embarrassment when Granny, with her ever present sixth sense makes her way across to their table, habitual frown firmly fixed in place, holding today’s menu.

“Anything I can you girls?” she asks, while throwing a searching look Belle’s way. Ruby hesitates and so Granny leaps quickly into the silence. “You look like you need a pick-me-up – how about some blueberry pancakes. On the house?”

Belle starts to demur when Granny puts both hands on her hips. “It wasn’t a question. I’ll have them with you in a couple of minutes.” Ruby starts to thank her grandmother but Granny ignores her, leaning in to Belle to say, quietly “And just say the word and I’ll put a crossbow through his heart if he’s hurt you.”

While Belle is processing the offer to commit murder in broad daylight Ruby settles back in her seat. She says, thoughtfully, “You know what, Belles. You just might want to seriously think about taking her up on that offer.”


	11. Chapter 11

Gold has seen neither hide nor hair of Belle since that disastrous conversation over a week ago. Well, apart from the occasional flash of colour he spots crossing the street en route to the library that makes his mouth go dry and his heart pound, but that doesn't really count. 

His carefully crafted text messages, stiffly formal, that have suggested meeting for a coffee have been ignored. She has failed to turn up to work and he misses her chatter, her warm laughter, the way her eyes light up when he says something that amuses her. He even misses the way she perches her bum on his counter when she’s discovered the latest delivery of books to browse through, rather than doing the work he’s paying her for.

His life is a Belle-shaped hole and he hates it. Hates that he hurt her. Hates that he doesn’t really understand what happened between them to make her storm away from him like that. Hates that he doesn’t know how to fix the mess he’s made.

He takes another sip of coffee and winces – it’s still too hot, so he carefully places the mug down on the kitchen table, idly tracing the lettering that runs down its side. Gold knows he’s being a masochist but the ‘Mr French’ reminds him of happier times and he’s still not quite ready to put it back in the cupboard, out of sight and out of mind. It would feel too much like a closed chapter.

Grimacing at how maudlin he’s being, he's just starting to wonder if he should try texting Belle again and whether a more informal, chatty style of communication might reap better rewards when there’s a very sharp rap on his door, followed by someone, someone apparently extremely eager to talk to him, pressing the door bell and keeping their finger there. Cursing under his breath, he limps along the hallway and flings the door open.

Having clearly settled in for the long haul, the Lucas girl almost falls against him before she grabs hold of his arm to steady herself.

“Easy there,” she says. “You caught me off guard.”

Gold stares at her unblinkingly and then tries to slam the door shut in her face.

Ruby’s reaction time takes him by surprise. In one quick movement there’s a leather clad foot firmly wedged against the doorframe.

“Not so fast, Goldie,” she snaps and he finds himself goggling at her bare-faced cheek. 

“What did you just call me,” he asks and Ruby smirks.

“Old as well as stupid, are you?” she replies and he wishes he could take his cane to her and wipe that smug look off her face.

Instead of taking action that is likely to see him spending the night in jail, Gold chooses to count to three, slowly, and then speaks to her as if she’s mentally deficient to see if he can irritate her as much as she is him. “Well dearie, as much as I’m enjoying this scintillating discussion, is there something I can actually help you with, because otherwise I’ll bid you a good day.” 

As he’s talking Gold puts his full weight into trying to close the door but Ruby pushes back and a rather unseemly struggle ensues that leaves both of them out of breath. He looks around him for his cane so he can slam it down on her foot but in the second it takes for him to glance over his shoulder, Ruby uses her height advantage to give one hard shove and with a cry of triumph she’s whipped past Gold and takes up position in the hallway. 

Gold has to resist the temptation to throttle her and his mood is not improved when Ruby does a three hundred and sixty degree spin, taking in the dark wood and antique vases, whistling in surprise.

“Wow. Nice place you’ve got here Mr Gold. Must be worth a small fortune, all these knickknacks.” 

He bristles. Knickknacks indeed. The blue vase by the staircase alone is worth a small fortune.

Happily oblivious to the hostile glances being thrown her way, Ruby continues to assess his property. “Must be a nightmare to dust,” she observes, running her finger along a ledge before bring it up to her face to inspect. "Surprised you don't have a cleaner." 

Before Gold can reply, his unwanted guest dances down the corridor and disappears into the kitchen, chirping that normally she'd ask for a tour but she's dying for a coffee and by the time he’s stopped gaping after her back and catches her up, Ruby is already ensconced in his chair holding that infernal mug out in front of her looking like the cat who got the cream. Gold silently admits defeat and sinks down opposite her to glare at the table as if it’s personally offended him. He can only hope Ruby puts him out of his misery as swiftly as possible rather than toying mercilessly with him because he suspects the ensuring conversation is going to be painful.

“So.” Ruby shoots him a speculative look. “Do you want to tell me what was going through that clever head of yours when you told Belle you weren’t interested in her?”

Gold can't quite take in what he's just heard. The woman is clearly delusional.

He keeps his voice deliberately flat but there’s bite there because Gold may feel weary and unsure how his morning has unravelled so rapidly but he’s not going to stand for being talked to this by some – by some flibbertigibbet waitress."You don't know what you're talking about Miss Lucas. But I strongly advise you not to interfere in what is a private matter."

Ruby bares her teeth at him and Gold quickly recalibrates his assessment of her. She can be rather intimidating when she wants to be. He suddenly wants nothing more than for her to be gone from his house so he decides to rip the sticking plaster from the wound holding his heart together so he can just get this over and done with.

“What is it you want me to tell you?’ he demands, throwing his hands up in frustration. “That we were in love? That I’m everything Belle wants in a man, in a potential partner? Have you looked at me Miss Lucas. I mean really looked at me? I’m fifty. I’m old enough to be Belle’s father, for Christ’s sake. She’s young, she’s beautiful, she has her whole life ahead of her. What on earth do you think I have to offer someone like that?”

The words are falling out of his mouth and once he’s finished, Gold is panting as though he’s run a marathon. A wave of bitterness surges through him and settles in his stomach, like bile. He slumps down in the chair, running his fingers through his hair. Ruby starts to speak but Gold says flatly, without looking at her, “Get out.”

There’s nothing but silence, apart from a soft drip, drip, drip from the tap. Eventually Gold looks up through his fringe and sees Ruby still sitting opposite him but there’s a very different look on her face now, it’s one of understanding and – is that amusement?

“You two actually deserve each other,” she says, and her tone is almost fond. “You’re an idiot, Gold. A Class A idiot. A prize…”

“Yes, thank you Miss Lucas, there’s no need to finish that sentence, I think I can guess where you’re going with it.” Gold’s tone is dry, drier than the Sahara but there’s no real heat behind his words.

“No seriously. You two need to be locked in a room together until you learn how to communicate like the adults you’re supposed to be.” She stops for a moment and then adds “and what possessed you to go agreeing with her fake relationship idea which I might add in the worst in a long line of bad ideas Belle’s had? You must have known she’s completely mad about you and that..." 

Gold opens his mouth to protest but Ruby shushes him. “Don't tell me you didn't know because nobody could be that blinkered and stupid,” she admonishes and he snaps his mouth shut. “But just in case you've been living on a completely different planet to the rest of the folk here, Belle’s been in a complete meltdown about you turning her down and let me tell you that girl really knows how to drown her sorrows, so it’s no lie to say it’s cost me a fortune in red wine and gin trying to raise her spirits.” 

Gold goes cold at that though and leans in towards Ruby, filled with a terrible need to put her straight, even thought he knows she’ll be hotfooting it down the hill to brief her friend on all of this morning’s conversation. “I assure you, Miss Lucas, I had no idea that Belle might feel that way about me and that I would never, ever, knowingly hurt her. But she knows that. And if she doesn’t she should.”

Ruby fixes him with a glare and then finishes off Gold’s cold coffee before slamming it down on the table, displaying a dramatic flair he’s secretly impressed with. “I’m not the person you need to be telling this to. Now for the love of god, will you please man up and go talk to her. Please. My liver can’t take another week of this.”

Gold slowly nods and Ruby seems satisfied. Getting to her feet she looks down at him. “And just in case you needed another incentive, my grandmother spent last night polishing her crossbow.” With that, she whirls out of the kitchen and the next moment the door slams behind her so hard it makes the bunches of herbs hanging by the stove sway.

00000

Belle’s in the library, closing up for the day having finally coaxed Henry and a couple of his school pals to leave before Madam Mayor comes looking for them (a most effective incentive if the look of fear that crosses William’s face is anything to go by). She waves them goodbye, wishing them a lovely evening and then makes her way to the office where her coat and bag are when she hears the front door open and then close.

“Sorry, we’re shut now,” she calls but the only answer is silence. Shrugging she tugs on her coat and does up the lovely chunky mother of pearl buttons before winding the moss green scarf around her throat, the velvet feeling luxurious against her skin. Belle had heard from Ruby earlier today, saying that if it wasn't too much of a problem, she could do with a booze free night and besides Granny needed some help with a delivery that’d take up much of the early evening and after that she’d need a shower and to change.

Belle’s a little disappointed because she’s got used to having Ruby around but if she’s honest, she too could probably afford to give her liver the night off and anyway, she’s got behind with her reading and she’s going through a Virginia Woolf phase so a cosy evening curled up reading ‘To the Lighthouse’ isn’t the worst thing that could happen to her. 

She switches the office light off and steps out into the main library. And stops dead in her tracks. Because standing in front of the counter, resting on his cane, the silver threads in his hair catching the early evening sun, dressed in a handmade suit with a blood red tie and matching pocket square, and looking good enough to eat is Alexander Gold.

Cheekbones razor sharp, his face all angles and half in shadow, he watches as Belle, tugged by an invisible string, finds herself moving towards him until they’re standing face to face, only the counter between them. 

She swallows and is certain he can hear her because his gaze drops down to the tiny bit of flesh that’s not covered by her scarf for just a beat or two before lifting again to settle back on her face. When he continues to watch her, his face a mask, heat starts to pool in her chest, before moving sinuously down through her belly to settle finally between her legs. 

And the silence between them grows and Belle has no idea how to break it.

Finally, Gold starts to speak, his voice gravelly, his accent more pronounced, and the heat between her legs is replaced with an insistent throbbing. 

“I had an unexpected visitor this morning.”

Belle feels a wave of disappointment building. They haven’t shared a word or a look in over a week and this is what he wants to say to her?

“It was most enlightening.”

Belle wants to stamp her feet like a petulant child because where is he going with this?

Gold pauses, clearly looking for some sort of reaction from her. Well he’s going to be sorely disappointed then, she thinks to herself, glaring at down at the floor.

When it’s clear he’s not going to be getting any encouragement from Belle, he continues.

“It was Miss Lucas.”

At this Belle’s head snaps up. Gold is watching her carefully, a glint in his eyes. And then he leans in towards her.

“I think we need to talk.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Traitor.” 

Gold gapes in dismay until he realises with a dawning sense of relief that Belle’s not talking about him. 

“Fraternising with the enemy.” 

He understands that Belle might not be terribly happy with him right now but her words have the strangest effect on Gold; he is suddenly filled with the need to leap to Ruby’s defence (not that Miss Lucas would appreciate in the slightest his dashing in on a white steed to protect her honour). He holds his hands out in supplication. “Belle. Please, this isn’t her fault. She’s your friend and thought she was doing the right thing by coming to speak to me. She cares about you.”

Belle snorts. “Hmm. So, I take it then that you don’t? Care, I mean.” Gold tenses because there’s a world of meaning behind Belle’s words and he has never wanted to facepalm himself this much. How has this conversation gone so wrong, so quickly? Huffing in frustration he makes another attempt to pour oil on troubled water. “You know that’s not what I meant. She – was worried about you and came round to knock some sense into me.”

“And she did that, how exactly?”

“Well Miss Lucas can be very persuasive when she wants to be.”

And – he wants to bite his tongue because this was definitely the wrong thing to say. Cursing himself for his stupidity Gold watches in alarm as with one staccato step, Belle pushes herself off from her side of the counter to click clack her way around to where he’s standing. She places herself in front of him before proceeding to poke his ribs with a bright red fingernail to provide additional emphasis to her next question. “I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

Gold stares at her and then somehow manages to make a bad situation even worse by spluttering, “Belle, anyone would think the way you’re reacting that you’re jealous.” A particularly fierce jab to his ribcage makes him wince. 

Instinctively he takes hold of her hand to stop her assault of his stomach, wrapping his fingers around Belle’s wrist. He can feel her pulse beating fast, and tiny gusts of breath are warm against his chin. Suddenly the air between them is charged with something hot and electric and Belle’s soft body wriggling against him is not helping his self-control one jot.

“Will you just keep still for a moment,” he begs her. 

“Make me,” Belle retorts, her eyes snapping onto his. Black on blue. Dark on light. Gold’s mouth goes dry, and he couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. When he licks his lips to try and moisten them, Belle’s glance drops down to his mouth for a second before raising her eyes again to his. Without breaking contact, she stands up on tiptoe and breathes, “I said ‘make me.’” 

And in the quiet, the sound of Gold’s cane being dropped echoes all around the library. 

Afterwards if anyone was to ask him, Gold wouldn’t be able to precisely say who it was who made the first move but he can most certainly recall what it felt like to feel Belle’s hair beneath his hands for the first time, and how Belle set to undoing the knot in his tie with intent, that boded well for the future, 

“Christ, I want you so much, so - so badly,” Gold hears himself say. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the day you came into my shop and parked this,” and he grabs her bum and gives it a squeeze, “on my counter.”

“So why didn’t you say anything?” Belle asks, pausing from her nimble work - having already slid the tie from around Gold’s neck to drop it on the floor - in unfastening his suit jacket. “You can’t not have known how I felt. I dropped you enough hints. And you’re a smart man.”

It doesn’t take long for the jacket to follow suit and it’s a measure of how wrapped up Gold is in Belle that he doesn’t even wince at the thought of having to get it dry cleaned.

“I had no idea you actually liked me. How could I when the only time you suggested we dated it was to get Legume off your back.” Gold lowers his mouth to suck gently on her earlobe which elicits a delicious whimper from Belle, before adding, “I can’t believe we could have been doing this instead of talking about the merits of Charles Dickens.” He finishes that sentence with a sharp nip that makes her squeal. “And just for the record, I fucking hate Bleak House.”

“Well we’d better call the whole thing off then,” Belle replies, but Gold thinks she might not be being entirely serious given that her fingers are now busily questing ever downwards in a way that makes him come to complete hardness as if he’s a teenager.

“Is there something in particular you’re hoping to find down there?” he enquires in between licks and gentle bites along her collarbone and then gasps as she reaches her goal and gives it a squeeze. 

“I’m clearly not doing my job properly if you’re still speaking in full sentences,” she says and follows the squeeze up with a firm stroke of her hand. It has the result she’s seeking.

“Christ. Fucking Christ. Don’t – don’t stop.” He knows he’s losing control and that a man of his years really should be able to stop rutting against– 

The loud thump on the door makes them both startle and jump apart before dropping to the floor where they freeze to the spot. Ruby’s voice can clearly be heard through the heavy wooden main doors.

“Belles. You in there? I’ve been trying your phone but you’re not picking up.” Another thump, which makes Belle wince. “I’ve been round to yours but there was no reply. Granny’s let me off the hook so I thought we could go for a cheeky glass of wine and I can tell you all about my little chat with Gold this morning. Seriously, that man is so head over heels with you it’s not true…” 

Belle fixes Gold with a look that brimming with mischief. “Head over heels?” she whispers, smirking.

“Shut up,” he whispers back, but he can’t quite stop the grin that wants to break out. “I always told you that girl was a pathological liar.”

“I thought your exact words were, ‘she can be very persuasive.”

“Pathological, I definitely said pathological. I think your hair must sometimes act as an earmuff,” Gold jokes, tugging at a curl that’s tickling his cheek.

There’s one more final enthusiastic wallop of the door and then it seems that Ruby’s given up and gone searching elsewhere. 

“D’you think she’s gone,” Gold asks, the sensation of Belle gently exploring the tips of his hair and scraping her nails along his scalp making him want to purr, “because I’d quite like to stop skulking on the floor like a criminal who’s been caught in the act.” Belle laughs gently at his choice of words and, agile as a mountain goat, leaps to her feet, tugging Gold so that he follows her.

“I think the coast is clear,” she says, twinkling at him. She lets one hand trace his jawline while the other arm snakes its way around his waist. “Now, where were we, exactly?”

Gold quirks an eyebrow and then finds himself pressed up so tight against her there’s no space at all between them. He’s sure she can feel just how turned on he is by her but is too caught up in what’s happening between them to care. “Well I think I was about to kiss you senseless unless you have any objections?” and when Belle smiles, he rests one hand against her cheek, watching her eyes flutter closed, and then slots his mouth over hers. 

He slides his tongue along her lower lip and then - 

And then there’s another thump on the door.

“For fuck’s sake,” Gold mutters. “Can’t we just be left alone for five minutes. Christ, it’s not that much to ask for, is it?” And then a little louder, “for the love of God, is there nobody else you can go and bother tonight, Miss Lucas. How can I possibly follow your advice if you keep interrupting me every other minute?”

It’s not Ruby.

“Gold? If you don’t get your sorry ass out here in the next five seconds, it’s going to have one of my arrows buried deep in it.”

Although a fondness for unwanted and poorly timed interruptions do seem to be a bit of a family trait.

00000

It’s a Friday lunchtime. 

If Gold looks very closely, he can see a very faint bruise on the pulse point on Belle’s neck when the midday sun catches it, and he’s not ashamed to say it makes him feel proud. Proud that the whole town can see that Belle is most definitely his. It matches the teeth marks on his shoulder and if it wasn’t for possibly giving Granny a heart attack, he’d happily bare his skin so the gossip mongers can have a field day.

Belle takes a big bite of her burger and Gold watches her hungrily, as juice from the meat wets her lips. He still can’t quite believe that after all that’s happened to them both they’ve managed to come out the other side, that they’re here today sharing something as mundane as fast food in a diner. 

They’ve been working on their communication, making sure there’s no room for misunderstandings, and spending even more time getting to know each other. In bed. On the kitchen table. Against the shop counter. And the library counter, come to that. And every encounter has been better than the last.

After the constant interruptions at the library the previous week and a rather uncomfortable confrontation with Granny who’d demanded to know if Gold’s intentions were honourable, they’d both decided it was safer to continue their evening in the comfort of Gold’s house, which had begun with Belle kicking the front door shut and pushing him up against it before taking him apart in a delightfully focused way that left him feeling lightheaded but not so limbless that he couldn’t reciprocate in kind, savouring the taste of her on his tongue and the softness of her thighs as they’d tightened around his head, and cataloguing all the delicious cries and murmurs she made.

And it turned out that that was just an appetiser, with several more courses to follow, each more delicious than the one before. He’d woken the next day rather sore and very sticky, with Belle French, his best friend, curled up against him, messy curls spread across the pillow sleeping the sleep of the very thoroughly fucked. Looking at her, Gold had decided he really owed Ruby the most enormous debt of gratitude. Maybe in the form of a crate of wine.

Gold notices the mayor enter the diner and that, having clocked their presence, is starting to make her way over to where they’re sitting, a gleam in her eyes. Belle has explained to him the concept of ‘cock blocking’ and he is now fully aware of the signs of an imminent attack. 

If anyone had told him that Belle could bring out this playful, sexually confident side of him and he, hers, he’d have laughed them out of town but now, well now, he’s up for a bit of fun at the mayor’s expense. Gold mouths ‘Regina’ to Belle and then in a verbal shorthand that’s come to them very naturally, conveys Belle should just play along.

“So – bondage.” Loud enough to reach ears desperate to eavesdrop.

Despite the hint he’s sent her way, Belle still nearly chokes on the sip of iced tea she’s just taken. Gold presses the end of his cane down on her foot to distract her as Regina sidles ever closer.

“I’m very open to being adventurous in the bedroom, if you are,” Belle says in her best come hither voice, once she’s got her breathing under control. “Spanking. Blindfolds. Feathers.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Ice. Maybe a little roleplay.” Gold lifts the cane from where it’s pressing down on Belle’s shoe. Holding her gaze, he runs the cold metal handle up Belle’s calf and enjoys the way she shudders, her eyes closing for a second.

“How very – enlightening,” he replies, the smirk on his face genuine, as is the tightness of his trousers. “I look forward to – Ah yes, Ms Mills, is there something you wished to speak to us about?”

Regina, clearly having had a change of heart about interrupting their date when she caught the nature of their discussion, is in the process of doing a smart one hundred and eighty degrees turn but Gold’s voice pins her to the spot.

“Gold. Miss French.” Voice polite, eyes flashing. “You’re both looking very –“

The cane continues its measured but steady progress up Belle’s leg, up past her calf to rest, momentarily behind her knee.

“Happy?” Gold lilts, matching her politeness word for word. “Enjoying a private conversation?” 

Regina tries but fails to not react to Gold’s faux charm. She hisses at him. “Will you please try and keep it down.” Urged on by a clear lack of repentance on his face, she continues with a threat. “I wouldn’t want to have to call Miss Swan. You’ve already been taking up more than enough of her time in recent weeks,” she says throwing Belle a hard look, “when she should be focused on tackling crime, rather than public indecency.” Belle squirms and Regina, thinking this is due to making Belle feel uncomfortable, allows herself a small but victorious grin. 

Little does she know Gold’s cane has now come to rest against Belle’s moist panties and that one small subtle twist of his wrist is enough to elicit a soft but clearly audible moan.

Gold throws Regina the smile of a great white shark; lots of teeth, all of them sharp and pointed. “Yes well, thank you for that, Madam Mayor. Most – civic minded of you.” He eyes Belle, who is delectably flushed. 

She looks good enough to eat.

Time to rid the diner of the mayor, ask for the check and to have a more detailed discussion about the merits of handcuffs versus leather restraints.


End file.
